


Let's Turn Our Future Upside Down (I'll Make You Queen Of Everything You See)

by BluestruckHolly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 'nut jokes', Copious Amounts of Grudging Respect, Draco thinks everyone has lost it, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Er they eat very quickly because I can't keep up conversation even in stories, HP: EWE, M/M, Made-up spells, Narcissa and Harry literally become buds, Not Epilogue Compliant, Open Relationship Themes, Quidditch talk, This fic has caused me weird Google searches, because you know, but if you guys know a good one don't hesitate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6808378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluestruckHolly/pseuds/BluestruckHolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco quells the rising grief threatening to close his throat, raises a glass instead, looking at Potter's emerald eyes. He anchors himself to them, and tries not to cry when he hears Mother's voice in his head, telling him about the extraordinarily talented Muggleborn a few years under her at Hogwarts. Potter's glass clinks against his.<br/>His eyes glint, his smile is shaky.<br/>'To Narcissa Black.'<br/>They drink.</p><p>[Or Harry and Draco have nothing in common apart from love for Narcissa. When she's gone, her last wish is for them to try and find peace within each other.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andromeda begins to eat, still looking at Draco. ‘Harry has visited Mother every week for the past years, ever since she saved his life. You do, of course, know of that?’ Unsurprisingly, she nods. It had made front page on the Prophet. He had been furious. ‘They grew fond of each other, I suppose.’ Looking back, Draco shouldn’t have been as shocked as he had been when he realized Mother considered Potter part of the family. They had built their lives from scratch after the War, and had sought each other’s company through it. It was no wonder they were close.  
> ‘I never joined them for tea, or a meal. I barely interacted with Harry. I have no idea why, but she mentioned to me, months after he had first come, that we would make a wonderful pair.’ He blushes, and starts to slice his pork. He’d been terrified then, that Mother knew what he thought of Potter, or rather, his body. He hadn’t been able to help it- the War had left him with nothing but a black hole, and admiring Potter in his Quidditch robes was an easy habit to fall back into. ‘She kept trying to bring us together, but she gave up after a while.’  
> His nostalgic smile fades. ‘I think she realized she was dying soon. She’d never have given up otherwise.’  
> 

‘All my life, I’ve known I was only alive because my mother loved me so much that she died for me. I have never underestimated the power of love. Yet, what were the chances that a mother’s love would save me from certain death at the hand of Voldemort twice in a span of seventeen years?’  
  
A ripple of shock runs around the crowd. He hears Blaise’s quiet gasp, Pansy’s sharp inhale. Draco flinches at the name, which still haunts the crevices of his mind, and brings with it the memory of sharp hisses, red eyes and fear that closed his throat up. Then he digests the rest of Potter’s words. The implications of the words nudge at the edge of his brain, and suddenly the air in his lungs is too little, the feeling of being shoved so hard that his chest caves in so, so strong. He can feel how wide his eyes are, feel the stares of everyone around him, looking to Narcissa’s only family for reassurance that they were not taken aback.  
  
He is. His wide-eyed gaze skittered from the ring bearing the Malfoy suit of armour on his finger, to the elevated platform where Potter stood, parchment in hand as he waited for the alarm to dissipate. His earnest emerald eyes meet Draco’s, sorrow lining them fiercely. There is no pity in his gaze, and that is what compels him to nod at Potter. Potter slightly inclines his head, and ruffles the sheet in his hand, making to continue. Draco realizes a beat later that he had awaited his permission.  
  
‘Narcissa Black saved the Wizarding World with three words. The day I went to seal my fate in the Forbidden Forest, I was faced with a Killing Curse again.’ Draco holds his breath. He stares at Potter, cannot take his eyes off of him. Wonders how he spoke about his own death so aloofly.  
  
‘I did not die, but I knew better than to move. There were sounds of whispers, of people scrambling to their feet. Then, of a bang that indicated a curse hitting its mark. A shriek of pain.’ Potter’s mouth tightened. Draco's heart sinks as he realize why. ‘Voldemort had ordered someone to determine whether I was alive. I knew the fingers that prodded me could feel my blood thrumming in my veins. And then, I felt hair brush my face. A voice so soft I strained to hear it, despite the lack of distance. It asked, ‘Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?’’  
  
The anguish that floods him is so sudden, he cannot comprehend it. _Mother_ , he mourns. He wants her back so desperately in that moment, to sob in her neatly pressed robes and tell her that he was so, so grateful for her; that he would have never survived those years of his life without her; that he loved her. He chokes back a cry, and straightens his back. She had taught him to be strong. To never let his mask shift, because wolves were everywhere. He tries not to break under the pressure of the stares boring into him. He feels Blaise’s hand come to grip his. Potter looks directly at him, and says, ‘I understood then, she only wanted her son back. I breathed out a yes. Narcissa Black saved the Wizarding World with three words: ‘He is dead!’’  
  
Draco feels like a child again, his favourite broom splintered in his hand, calling out for his mother from the lawns in the Manor. She had always come when he needed her, always answered his calls, even the ones he didn’t know he was crying out. He has a mad urge to cry out now, hoping she somehow returns with her soft words and calm mind, to free him from the pain. He can feel Blaise’s hand drawing circles into his shaking palm, to calm his erratic pulse.  
  
‘I visited her a fortnight later. To thank her, to make sure she knew how immensely indebted I was to her. She thanked me instead.’ Potter glances at Draco again. ‘She invited me in for tea. The Malfoy Manor was in shambles, there were no house-elves she could call upon. The tea was made from a box of PG Tips. Yet, she never bent her head, her shoulders never slumped.’ A wry smile appears on Potter’s face. Draco feels a hint of one on his face too. ‘She was a proud woman.’  
  
‘I visited her sporadically over the next months, for various reasons.’ Draco remembers opening the great doors of the Manor to a red-eyed Potter one night. He suppresses a shudder. His eyes were so raw. ‘I told her once, in passing, of how I had come across the Resurrection Stone.’  
  
Draco’s breath halts. The Stone? But, it was a legend. Draco shakes himself. Potter’s Invisibility Cloak was real enough. Perhaps, if Draco finds it… Mother, he could bring Mother back. This is would all be for nothing, Mother would be back by his side. His hope shatters as he hears her voice, covered by a the haziness of imminent sleep: “ _Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered_.” No. No, he would not allow that to happen to Mother. He nearly misses Potter’s next words, engrossed within his thoughts. ‘It helped me to have seen my family before I had walked to what I thought was my death. My mother had promised to stay by my side. And when I felt Narcissa, her soft touch, I thought perhaps-’ Potter’s voice catches. His eyes have a thin film of tears. A watery laugh falls flat out of his mouth. ‘ _Perhaps_.’  
  
Draco can feel how Blaise and Pansy on either side of him are hanging onto Potter’s words. Draco is, too. They were Slytherins, he justifies. Seeing someone strip themselves bare would enrapture them. But Potter’s sheer earnestness overwhelms him. His eyes are vibrant, his movements sharp. He is giving himself up to scrutiny. There is no mask. He thinks he understands now, Mother’s fondness for him.  
  
‘She caught me in her arms after I confessed, and she never let go.’ Potter lets a tear streak down his face. ‘Even now, I don’t think she will.’ He wipes the back of his hand on his face, and steps down. Draco finds the hole in his heart has grown larger than life.  
  
Blaise’s fingers grip his as he goes under.

*

‘Draco!’ A knock sounds on the door of his flat. He knows it’s Pansy, here to check on him. Like she said she would, his mind helpfully points out. Draco would comment on how it was terribly bad form to criticize one’s own decisions, but his head was in the process of exploding. He vows to never drink again. At the very least, not in the capacity he had yesterday.

‘Draco Abraxas Malfoy!’ He hears a bang that is really too loud for this time in the morning. Another slam indicates Pansy’s really not in the best mood. Draco refuses to move from where he is curled up on the floor of his bedroom, listening to the angry tap-tap of Pansy’s heels on his mahogany flooring.

‘Draco. Get up, or so help me Merlin, I will-’ Draco gets up. He knows Pansy will have a Pepper-Up, if not Hangover, potion. His eyes are squinted into half-moons, Pansy’s distorted form a haze of black, grey and white. He puts on his best smile.

‘Hey, Pans.’

She snorts. ‘You aren’t fooling anyone. Get rid of that awful show of teeth.’

Bloody Pansy. What did it take these days to humour one’s friends, really? Was there anyone willing to do so? If so, where could Draco fill in a form? ‘Hand me the potion.’

He can make out Pansy’s smirk despite the fact that his eyes were closed. ‘What potion, Draco?’

He nearly growls. Why did he have to befriend Slytherins, honestly? They got off on torturing people. Fucking sadists. ‘Pansy,’ he warns. ‘I will kill you. I know you have it.’

She drops a vial in his hand, and takes a seat on the bed. ‘Only because I am in no mood to deal with you today.’ She watches him sniff the vial, then gulp it down. His eyes clear. ‘Learn to be a little responsible when you grieve at least, Draco. Honestly,’ she sniffs. ‘I had to Floo in at Gringotts and speak to that Fleur Weasley, to inform them you would be absent for a few more days. With her accent and hair and her infuriating attitude.’ She emits a noise which sounds like it should be coming from a Manticore.

Draco hides a faint smile as he has another sip of the Hangover potion. Pansy hated Fleur for no other reason than the fact that she had acquired some accursed perfume before her. She had wailed to Draco for hours, insisting it was unfair that a Gringotts worker- Deputy Head Curse-Breaker or not- had received said perfume before her, a model. Draco knows better than to mention to Pansy she was merely a budding apprentice then. Some things would never change.

‘Now, go make us breakfast, dear.’ Her eyes go from raging, to starry sweet in a matter of seconds. It’s fairly alarming. She taps him on the head helpfully.

Draco squawks. ‘ _I’m_ the one recovering from a terrible hangover!’

Pansy levels him with the most unimpressed look she can manage. Draco glares up at her, before resigning himself to his fate. He sighs. ‘At least put on the kettle?’ he asks hopefully, making his way to the adjoining bathroom. When he looks over his shoulder, Pansy is making her way to the Prophet left on his bedside table- Merlin knows when. She raises an eyebrow up at him.

He lets out another sigh. It seemed he was the only one capable of work this morning.

Draco mutters a spell vaguely irritably to rid him of his stubble. He grabs a toothbrush, engraved with a serpent as Blaise’s idea of a joke, and glares in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself. His eyes have purple circles lining them, his eyes are gaunt. His hair hangs loosely, unkempt and greasy. He feels so tired.  He considers trying to do something about them. He makes his way to the kitchen instead.

Pansy’s seated at the kitchen island, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Draco always wondered what sort of terrible Brit she considered herself. He is tempted to comment on it, but just raises an eyebrow at the cup instead. Pansy shrugs at his look. ‘You were taking too long. I suppose I _had_ to do something.’

He looks around for another cup, praying that against all odds, Pansy had felt generous. He curses under his breath when all he sees is a kettle. He sets about making his tea: black, with a dash of milk.

‘We have to meet Blaise, Theo and Millie at Fortescue’s today, I hope you haven’t forgotten.’ Pansy looks at him out of the corner of her, and he rolls his eyes. He sits across from her at the island. He blows on his tea.

‘I haven’t.’ He had. But he’ll be damned before he lets Pansy know. She gives him a look which says she knows he’s lying. He looks into the swirling depths of his cup.

‘Andromeda met me in Twilfitt and Tatting’s yesterday. She wants to meet you tomorrow night, at Ledbury. There’s things about the will that need to be discussed, and she’d rather not do it with Teddy around. And your flat, of course,’ Pansy looks at the bottles of Firewhisky, takeaway containers and Prophets lying everywhere with a disapproving and mildly disgusted look, ‘is out of order, to say in the least.’ She fixes him with a glare.

He really can’t be buggered to feel guilty. ‘And?’

‘Draco, you’re being overdramatic. You’ve always had a penchant for it, which is fine. But this is absolute bollocks. You’ve gone barmy.’ Pansy puts her cup to the side, and looks at Draco pointedly.

He feels the rising tide of anger almost immediately. ‘Dramatic? Dramatic, Pansy? I’ve lost a parent! The sane one, I might add. The one who didn’t want to sacrifice me to Dark Arts! Dead, you bint. I’d imagine you know what that means?’ He pushes his cup away, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Or did they tell you Vincent went to his Grandmother’s all these years? That your mother’s been visiting your aunt?’

Pansy’s eyes harden, and his anger ebbs. He knows he’s gone too far. ‘Pansy..’

She blinks, and all the vulnerability has been shaken out of her look. They’d been taught well. ‘You know you’re being dramatic.’

He knows, is the thing. He should have expected Mother’s death. The Healers had told him her condition was declining, they’d given him dates and numbers and charts. He’d known it was coming. Mother had spent her last few weeks telling him she expected him to be as brave and strong as she knew he was. He had always resented being spoken to like a child, but in those times, he almost welcomed the illusion, welcomed the ignorance that a child brought. He had accepted she was dying. But somehow, he managed to believe Mother would make it. She’d survived two uprisings of the Dark Lord. Lived in the same house with him for nearly a year.

‘Are you going to blather on about how I should move on, how she’ll always be in my heart? I should honour her last wishes?’ He looks to Pansy from under his eyelashes, and stirs his tea again.

She gives him a scowl of abhorrence, as if he just told her he adopted a sewage rat. ‘If you wanted that, you should have asked for Theo. Circe knows that boy should have ended up in Hufflepuff.’

He takes a sip of tea. Draco vaguely remembers reading about how females were naturally more empathetic and emotional. He wonders where Pansy went wrong. Out of the lot of them, Pansy was the most Slytherin. Though, he supposed, one could argue that was _because_ she was a female. ‘Then, what are you here for?’

Pansy brightens, and Draco’s eyes narrow. Pansy only found violent deaths, Muggle horror movies and torture amusing. ‘They’ve finished analyzing Narcissa’s will.’

Draco nearly lets himself believe Pansy isn’t planning murder. ‘And? I know of it already. Mother and I discussed it before-’ He chokes.

Pansy still has a glint in her eyes. ‘Did you know she has a table at The Ivy for a Mr. Potter and her son?’

Draco nearly spits his tea out, eyes bulging. His chair nearly breaks as he tilts forward violently. ‘What? What?!’ He fixes his eyes on her, and nearly screams. Of course, on top of everything, _that_ was what Draco needed. ‘Parkinson, you absolute horror-'

Pansy cackles. She _cackles._ 'I'll meet you at Fortescue's in two hours, love. Do continue this conversation there, I'll enjoy Blaise, Millie and Theo's faces.'

Draco curses his decision of not having Anti-Apparition wards in his flat. At least then Pansy could have stayed to hear him slam his bedroom door angrily.

*

Draco drops into a chair outside of Florean Fortescue’s parlour, glaring at Theo and Blaise. They seem unruffled by it, which just makes him more irritable. They stopped talking as soon as they spotted Draco Apparate and he knows they were discussing his health and Mother’s, well, lack thereof. He can feel the pity in their eyes, and he hates it, almost enough to want Pansy’s indifference. Almost. He flags down a passing waiter, asking for a chocolate and blueberry sundae with nuts.

Draco picks a spoon from the stand in the middle of the table when he sees Blaise’s sparkle the way they do when he’s going to make a codswallop joke he no doubt thinks is amusing. Blaise eyes the spoon now pointed at him, the meets Draco’s eyes innocently. ‘Oh, don’t be like that. I was merely thinking of-‘

‘A terribly plebeian joke?’ Theo interrupts. Draco snorts.

‘Where are Pansy and Millie? I need them to save me from the bollocks Blaise considers passable comical humour.’

‘I’m perfectly capable!’ Theo protests. Draco and Blaise raise an eyebrow at him. It’s far more likely that Pansy and Millie could individually maim Blaise than Theo could land a proper punch. Theo has always been tall and thin- in the days leading to the war, where they couldn’t eat or sleep, fear ruling every crevice of their bodies, Draco had been scared Theo wouldn’t make it; he was too frail, too weak. Mother was the one who told him to give Theo a Pepper-Up mixed with asphodel and armadillo bile. He looks away.

‘Yeah, and the Chudley Cannons is going to beat the Holyhead Harpies their next match.’ Blaise rolls his eyes.

Theo sits up. ‘Well, they did beat the Tornadoes last week. They may have a chance.’

Blaise shoots Theo a look of utter betrayal. Draco stares. ‘What? The Tornadoes? The Tutshill Tornadoes?’

‘No, the Norfolk ones.’ Blaise replies. Draco swats him. Blaise has the grace to look abashed, and Theo looks guilty anyway. He supposes Pansy wasn’t all wrong with her earlier assertion of Theo- but Pansy wasn’t there when Theo refused to choose sides in the War; wasn’t in the boys dormitory with Blaise, Greg, Vincent and Draco to see Amycus Conjure ropes to scar Theo’s back; wasn’t there to help clean the wounds; wasn’t there to hear Theo scream in his sleep. Draco knows the War had taken a lot out of all of them.

‘Sorry, we forgot you...were out of order these past few weeks.’ Theo looks at the table with sudden interest.

Draco is scared in moments like these: to see proud, carefree Theo so ashamed and powerless. He had looked down upon people like that, had thought them weak and powerless. Now, he just wants to make it right. He locks eyes with Blaise, and knows he is thinking the very same thing. He turns to Theo instead, and asks, ‘So, how in the world did that happen? The Cannons? Winning against the Tornadoes?’

Theo looks about ready to dive into the statistics and graphs of the match, complete with assumptions based on the history of matches between the teams. Apparently, being a Quidditch commentator would do that to a person. Luckily, Blaise cuts in. ‘It was merely a stroke of luck. That half blind twat, Gudgeon, suddenly decided he could be arsed to find the Snitch, right when it was hovering in front of him.’ Blaise violently spoons the chocolate and vanilla ice cream that has appeared in front of him.

‘And,’ Theo continues, frowning at Blaise when a drop of chocolate ice cream splatters his grey jumper, ‘if he manages to be arsed against the Harpies, they’ll make it two places up on the league charts.’

Draco feels out of place all of a sudden. He doesn’t remember the last match he tuned into this season. Hell, he doesn’t remember when the season started. He’d been too busy, taking care of Mother, trying to keep her with him. Draco doesn’t even know what the betting pool is, and he usually is the one to start it off among his friends and colleagues. He clears his throat. ‘How are the Ballycastle Bats doing?’

He had aimed for nonchalant. By the looks of Theo and Blaise’s pitiful faces, he has failed. He gives them his best scowl. ‘Well, their first match of the season is this Friday, against the Falcons.’ Theo starts.

Draco stares. ‘Is that intended to be a joke, or something? The top team of the League against the worst?’

‘That was the charts five years ago, Draco, honestly. You conveniently only seem to remember the year the Bats won in times like this.’ Blaise says. Draco glowers. Honestly, what _did_ it take to not call out friends on certain fronts?

‘Well, to be fair, the Falmouth Falcons only won to the Cannons and the Prides last year. The Bats only lost to Puddlemere in the finals. Near perfect.’ Theo interrupts. He leans back when a bowl of butterscotch ice cream appears on the table.

‘Anyway,’ Blaise begins. Draco conceals a smile. Blaise hates being contradicted, especially when it comes to Quidditch. ‘We might as well bring you up to speed while we wait for Pansy and Millie. The first match was the Montrose Magpies against the Pride of Portree. Needless to say, Portree-‘

‘Got arse-over-tit buggered?’ Draco regrets asking for a sundae as he sees Blaise and Theo dig into their bowls. But well, he has taste. Unlike Theo. Merlin’s pants, no one in their right mind would enjoy butterscotch ice cream.

Blaise tuts. ‘Such vulgarity. As it is, that might be an understatement.’

‘Appleby Arrows played Kenmare Kestrels two weeks ago,’ Theo puts his spoon down. Then, his face pales. Draco doesn’t resent Theo for forgetting it was Mother’s funeral. He refuses to be the person who wants everyone to walk on eggshells around him, always be careful not to incite him. Draco knows Theo tried to get out of work for the funeral. He couldn’t. Draco hates that Theo expects him to grudge that.

He hopes the look in his eyes tells Theo that. ‘That must have been one match, huh? They were nearly neck to neck last year.’

Theo smiles. ‘Yeah, it went on for two hours. A pain, really. I saw the Snitch twice from the booth. Seekers that can’t be buggered to look for it themselves really are the worst.’

Blaise sighs. ‘Pity Potter left the Kestrels. They nearly made it to fifth position last year with him. Say what you will about him, the man’s a good Seeker.’ He morosely gulps another bit of vanilla cream.

Draco nearly topples out of his seat. God, Potter. He’d nearly forgotten about that. He’d always visited Mother for months last year in those Kestrel emerald green robes that made his eyes look like planets. He’d come right after practices, tracking mud in the Manor, heading to the drawing room where Mother would wait. He casts his mind back, recalling the few times he’d seen Potter at the Manor in the past few months. He had been wearing Muggle clothes, sometimes black tailored robes. He recalls a time he wore blue robes. Mother had been in a critical condition then. Draco scarcely left her side. Potter had come to visit her, and Draco had given them their privacy. Out of all people, he trusted Potter with Mother. He looks back at Blaise and Theo. ‘He plays for the Tornadoes now? Or Puddlemere United?’

They seem surprised. ‘Puddlemere,’ Theo answers. ‘And I’ve been to one of the recordings of their practices. They’re going to win, I’m sure. With Oliver Wood as the Keeper, _and_ Potter the Seeker, the other teams have no chance.’

‘Draco! Did you tell them without even waiting for me?’ They turn to see Pansy and Millie making their way into Fortescue’s. They wait as they both sit, then place their orders: a raspberry and strawberry sundae with sprinkles for Pansy and peach-apricot ice cream for Millie. Draco revels in the fact that Pansy will have to wait longer than Draco for her sundae. It’s the one consolation he has, knowing that Pansy will tell the others about his date with Harry Potter. There’s no stopping her, really.

Theo pounces as soon as Millie is done. The con of being raised in families like theirs, apart from the whole following-the-Dark-Lord-to-murder-people, of course, is the social conventions and formalities drilled into one’s head. Despite being in an informal surrounding among friends, none of them have an elbow on the table. Draco is wholly aware Blaise and Theo have been buzzing since Pansy arrived with her disastrous comment, but they simply had to wait until she has settled down and is waiting for edibles. Knowing Pansy, she had probably timed it for that very reason. Bint.

‘Well? Are you going to tell us whatever it is?’ Theo asks. Draco sinks back into his chair, and glares at Pansy. She smirks back at him.

‘Yes, do go on. She’s been ranting the entire way till here about some bollocks she had on Draco. I’ve never been one for suspense, and her ability to stretch it out, though admirable, is frustrating.’ Millie leans back in her seat.

Pansy is enjoying this, Draco can tell. She leans forward. ‘Well, it’s just that Draco has a date with the very same Harry Potter had Theo mentioned.’ She is trying to sound casual, but the mischievous glint in her eyes betrays her.

Blaise’s eyes widen to a comical degree, and Theo nearly sprays butterscotch ice cream over everyone, spitting, ‘Bugger!’ Millie just snorts. She is unfailingly unperturbed; nothing seems to make her uneasy. Pansy basks in the glow of the reactions. Draco sinks lower into his seat.

Blaise looks at Draco. ‘Well?’

Draco leans a dainty wrist on the edge of the table, fiddling with the spoon. ‘Well. It’s not a date. Merely… a dinner Mother organized in her will.’

That puts a damper on things. Blaise reaches out to hold Draco’s elbow. ‘Draco, perhaps…’ he snatches his hand away. Blaise has that goddamn pitying look on his face again, and Draco is not equipped to deal with that. He hates it with a passion.

Pansy, unsurprisingly, rolls her eyes at the situation. ‘Enough, Blaise. None of this bollocks… Hufflepuff shite.’

Draco’s sundae appears with a pop in front him. He stares at it glumly, the blue and brown swirling together and nuts dotting the edges. It suddenly looks less appealing than when he was a child, with Mother chastising his horrific manners as he shovelled it in. He can hear Theo take a sharp inhale, as if to argue Pansy’s remark. ‘No, don’t.’

Everyone around the table looks surprised, even Mille. He furrows his brow. ‘She’s right. I refuse to be a moping wanker for a month. I must put this behind me.’ Blaise’s hand is still hovering near his mouth, a spoonful of ice cream dripping onto the table steadily. ‘Oh, stop with these looks.’ He turns to Millie. ‘I heard you treated one of the Weird Sisters at work, some freak stage accident? Details, Millie.’

Pansy hates the Weird Sisters with a passion only second to her hate of Fleur. 'Freak is right.'

He scoops some cream into his mouth, and waits as Millie begins a lengthy assertion on how unimpressive Kirley Duke was in person. He can’t help put let a flutter of warmth settle in his stomach as he looks around the table, a chocolate and blueberry aftertaste in his mouth.

*

The Ledbury interiors were clean shades of black and white, the occasional velvet red looking nothing but serene. It was the only Muggle restaurant Father had approved of wholly. Draco takes another sip of the sparkling Riesling, brushing the sleeve of his suit away to glance at his watch. Aunt Andromeda would be another few minutes, no doubt.

He puts his glass down gently, folding his hands in his lap, as Mother always deemed proper for dinners at fine establishments. Again, he wonders if he will ever grow out of these habits. He found himself worried about having his takeaway with a salad fork last night in his flat. To be fair, he was drunk and he hadn’t done the dishes for a week and a half. Perhaps two. He doesn’t quite remember if he ate in the days after the funeral. He hadn’t eaten lunch today in fear that he wouldn’t be able to keep dinner down. He imagines it’s time to do something about his appetite. He catches a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looks up as his aunt makes her way to the table.

He stands, and holds his hand out to her. She takes it, smiling gracefully at him, letting him take her coat and drape it on the back of her chair. She sits when he holds her chair out. She takes a sip of her wine, and hums. ‘I must admit, the one thing I miss about all this-’ she waves her hand around, as if to encompass the entirety of the situation, ‘is the impeccable choice of wine.’

Draco chuckles. Aunt Andromeda is the one person who understood the distinction between Draco’s life before and after the War. It wasn’t that he’d given up the entire Malfoy fortune, or hopelessly shunned from the elite circles. It was just that Draco had decided he wanted to live without comparing his luxuries to others’. ‘Not the clothing, I’m sure?’

‘Oh, one does feel like a princess like this,’ she gestures to her blue velvet gown, adorned with the smallest of pink pearls. She leans forward, whispering conspiratorially, ’It’s truly the heavy jewellery. I’m continuously surprised my ears don’t reach my shoulders with the weight of diamonds.’

‘Well, better diamonds than almandine garnet, no?’

Andromeda mimics a horrified look and sips her wine. ‘As if an exclusive such as me could fall that low.’

Draco laughs. It strikes him vaguely that it was the first time in months he has properly done so. It feels good. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of placing an order for our first and second courses. I recall you prefer choosing the fourth yourself.’ He can hear his voice lilting in the way he had learnt at all the parties and balls he attended. He hates it.

‘A sound choice.’ She winks at him. He looks away. Aunt Andromeda looks so much like Mother. Her hair is shorter, and mostly white compared to Mother’s salt and pepper locks. She’d always believed in aging gracefully, refusing to fall into dyes and wigs to meet norms. She’d been a rebel in her own way. He smiles vaguely at the waitron as he places a plate of classic English caviar in front of him. He catches Andromeda’s gaze.

‘Oh, Draco.’ Her smile is sad, empathetic. ‘I wish I could tell you it gets better. But it doesn’t. It just gets easier to forget, and I don’t know which is worse.’

Draco swallows the lump in his throat. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve lost another sister.’ He picks at his caviar, unable to look at her.

Andromeda’s smile falls. ‘Many think we do not consider Bella a sister anymore. Bellatrix was never anything to me, but Bella was our elder sister, a role model. Cissy and I remember the girl who taught us about magic, not the woman who followed a madman.’ She does not meet Draco’s eyes. ‘As for Narcissa,’ Draco supresses a flinch, ‘I have prepared myself. I have been preparing myself since the return of Voldemort,’ she says, and this time Draco recoils.

Andromeda looks up at that. ‘Apologies,’ Draco mutters. He brushes his serviette against the edge of the plate, where his caviar had fallen from his silver. She looks disappointed.

‘Enough of this nonsense talk, no?’ Andromeda shifts into a jollier mask. She smiles encouragingly at Draco. She raises her glass, and says, ‘Tonight, we will be true Malfoys and Blacks. We’ll rejoice at the thought of a will, and the valuables to be inherited.’

Draco has a wry grin. ‘Father did always love it when people died.’ Though, Draco suspects, if Askaban had not killed him, Mother’s death would have. Their glasses tinkle against each other as the staff clears the table for the second course.

‘So,’ Andromeda begins, knifing her cuttlefish. ‘The will. Narcissa has left most her fortune to you.’

Draco swallows a bite. ‘And a substantial amount to you, and Teddy,’ he answers.

Andromeda’s eyes fall to Draco’s hand. ‘She has left the jewellery she hasn’t sold to me, though I assume you wanted to keep the Malfoy and Black family crest ring?’

Draco blushes, sipping the Riesling to down a morsel. ‘I wasn’t aware she left it all to you. It’s just that, well, she insisted I wear it in the weeks before she… left,’ he finishes lamely. ‘I merely assumed she meant it was for me. Do I have your permission to keep it?’

Andromeda looks at him, scrutinizing him. ‘No, you do not. It is not yours to keep.’ She idly takes another piece of her fish. He feels a wave of rage come over him. Surely, to keep a single ring of his Mother’s was not too much to ask? It was made of silver, not very valuable in Galleons. Perhaps, before, the crest of the families would have fetched a price. But, now…

She smiles at him. ‘Oh, don’t look so enraged, darling.’ She reminds him of Pansy. Belatedly, he remembers Andromeda was a Slytherin too. He vows to find himself a Hufflepuff to befriend. He huffs. Andromeda merely chuckles. ‘That ring isn’t for you. It’s for your spouse.’

It is only through sheer willpower that Draco manages not to spew white wine on the table. ‘I- What?!’

‘You do intend to marry, no?’ She raises an eyebrow at him. Draco breathes a sigh of relief. For a moment, he’d thought Mother had engaged him off to some bint.

‘Well, I haven’t quite thought about anything that far off yet.’ Draco replies. He maintains a stable tone. If Andromeda is anything like Mother, she will insist Draco be married in another year’s time. It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He just hasn’t found anyone he’d want to settle down with, and he refuses to let anyone decide upon that particular matter for him.

‘In any case, if you do, you will require a ring to present them. That one,’ she waves a fork in the general direction of his hand.

Draco shudders. ‘I’d rather not think about it.’

Andromeda’s cutlery tinkles on the glass plate as she sets it down, and gestures to the nearby staff to clear the table. She frowns. ‘But, surely. There must be someone.’

Draco leans back slightly, letting the waitron move the plate away. He looks to Narcissa. ‘Third course, now. Your choice?’

She hums. ‘Is the pork satisfactory?’

Draco smiles. ‘I did make you eat two whole courses without asking for your opinion. Mother would have had my head if I said I’d prefer the pigeon.’

Andromeda glances at him as she relays their decision to the staff. She crosses a leg over the other, sipping her wine. ‘Not because it’s terribly bad form to order pigeon?’

Draco winks. ‘We only eat worthy birds. You know, swans, peacocks. Don’t get me started on pheasant.’

Andromeda laughs when he wrinkles his nose mockingly. She settles back into her chair, and takes another sip of wine daintily. She looks to Draco. ‘You’re certainly very good.’

He furrows his eyebrows. ‘Pardon me?’

‘You may be good at dodging questions, but I am a Black. And a Slytherin. It hasn’t escaped my notice that you haven’t responded to my comment about a lack of significant other in your life.’ She smirks. It looks entirely unsettling on her. ‘On that note, it seems Narcissa thinks Harry Potter fit to play that role.’

Draco sighs, reaching for his wine. Was anyone going to let him forget that? ‘It’s merely a dinner at The Ivy. Mother is up to her tricks again. She was aware the only way I’d agree to a… date, for lack of a better word, with Po- Harry,’ he clears his throat, ‘was if it would respect her last wishes.’

Andromeda smiles. ‘Certainly well planned. Though, if you don’t mind me asking, why would she think so?’

Draco finally realizes the reason for this dinner. It was never about the will, he knew. That had been finalized a week before the date the Healers had given. But, Potter? That was a surprise. He knew Aunt Andromeda knew Potter- Cousin Nymphadora and her husband, Professor Lupin, were both members of the Order. Yet, to be so fond of him that they interrogated Draco before a dinner with him? Those implications set off a myriad of questions. He jolts as a plate of pork with a side of cauliflower and oyster cream is placed in front of him. He waits until the waiter tops off their wine glasses and leaves.

Andromeda begins to eat, still looking at Draco. ‘Harry has visited Mother every week for the past years, ever since she saved his life. You do, of course, know of that?’ Unsurprisingly, she nods. It had made front page on the Prophet. He had been furious. ‘They grew fond of each other, I suppose.’ Looking back, Draco shouldn’t have been as shocked as he had been when he realized Mother considered Potter part of the family. They had built their lives from scratch after the War, and had sought each other’s company through it. It was no wonder they were close.

‘I never joined them for tea, or a meal. I barely interacted with Harry. I have no idea why, but she mentioned to me, months after he had first come, that we would make a wonderful pair.’ He blushes, and starts to slice his pork. He’d been terrified then, that Mother knew what he thought of Potter, or rather, his body. He hadn’t been able to help it- the War had left him with nothing but a black hole, and admiring Potter in his Quidditch robes was an easy habit to fall back into. ‘She kept trying to bring us together, but she gave up after a while.’

His nostalgic smile fades. ‘I think she realized she was dying soon. She’d never have given up otherwise.’

‘So, you don’t hold any emotion to Harry?’ Andromeda asks.

I want him knackered on my bed after he fucks me for the fourth time, Draco thinks. Instead, he looks up. ‘No, not really.’

She nods. ‘Very well.’

Draco furrows his brow. He can’t make head or tail of the situation anymore. All this questioning, and nothing more? Was she not going to threaten him, or some bollocks like that? To prevent Draco from causing Potter any distress? He shakes his head slightly. ‘How is Teddy?’

Andromeda’s face falls. Draco tries to remember if Teddy had been hurt or otherwise last he’d seen him. He realizes with a jolt that he hadn’t been to see him in nearly three months. He’d been too busy with Mother. He looks at her cautiously. ‘Aunt Andromeda?’

She looks up. He sees a tear glistening in the side of her right eye. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just,’ she swallows a lump in her throat, ‘Teddy came home a few days ago after school. He asked me why he didn’t have a mother, or father, like all of his friends. Where his grandfather was.’

The pain hits Draco with such intensity, it takes his breath away. He has been so numb these days. His heart aches as he imagines his little nephew with tears in his large, round brown eyes, hair painted a sober cerise colour, like it did when he was hurt, angry, confused. He was such a little thing. ‘Oh, Aunt Dromeda, I,’ he chokes. ‘I’m so sorry.’

She wipes her face fiercely. ‘I just keep thinking. It shouldn’t have to be this way. There shouldn’t be children who never knew their parents. My Dora and Remus should have lived to see their little boy grow up. Narcissa would be here. So many people would simply be alive. So much pain would never have to surface. All because of one madman.’

‘The Dark Lord,’ Draco whispers. He feels as if he is in a trance, the faces from the War on a repeat in front of him, the desperate voices of his classmates, dodging curses that bounced off the walls of what was considered to be a safe haven, searching for a hint that his Mother was still alive. He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers.

He looks up when he feels Andromeda clutch his hand. The ring is cool on his skin. ‘Don’t blame yourself. Voldemort’s magic killed her. You played no part in that, do you hear me?’

He nods. The rest of the meal passes in heavy silence. They order the brown sugar tart for dessert, and Draco’s eyes water when he imagines Mother, Father and himself in the table they always sat at in Ledbury, Mother’s eyes crinkling at the corners when Father grandly presents to her the tart he had taken the liberty of ordering. He hugs Aunt Andromeda goodbye, and pretends he isn't looking for the soft material of Mother's robes, the smell of star anise. He vows to meet Teddy as soon as he can.

*

Draco nods at Kiernan as he hands him his wand. Kiernan mutters a spell, and the wand glows golden. Draco stares at it for a second, transfixed. He knows that the colour of the glow is unique to the wizard, but most have shades of red, green, or blue. They call them different names, of course- a witch claims her glows white when it is the lightest shade of blue, a wizard says his wand glows yellow when it is truly on the edge of the spectrum where red meets green. But Draco’s is truly gold, not a shade or mixture of any colour. He remembers when he had been appointed Junior Curse-Breaker, how Norgook stared when Draco handed his wand to Aveyard, the guard three years ago, to enter into the Gringotts wards.

At first, he had suspected that the Dark Mark was the reason the goblins never trusted him, but they never batted an eye when he rolled up his sleeves on a particularly warm day, months after he had joined. Later, he wondered if it was the glow. He had asked Aveyard as nonchalantly as he could about it. He had laughed. ‘It’s not that the goblins don’t trust you, it’s that they don’t trust anyone.’

‘And the glow?’ Draco had asked hesitantly.

Aveyard had sobered then. ‘Malfoy, the wand recognition charm is not a simple charm at all.’ He’d known that, of course. The spell went on for at least fifteen words, and most of them sounded Greek to him. ‘Its basic function is to ensure the wand belongs to the person holding it, regardless of Polyjuice or obscuring charms or jinxes. But more than that, it indicates the very fibre of the wizard as the wand knows it.’

Draco supposes it made sense. The strength of the glow would indicate the bond between the wand and the wizard. After all, one might keep secrets from others, but your wand would know all. But with his wand’s history… ‘So, you’re telling me this is my wand’s way of saying it loves me?’

Aveyard had laughed again. ‘That’s a rather casual way of putting it. Now, bugger off, I’ve got other wands to check.’

Draco smiles at Kiernan, and takes his wand back. His steps echo in the entry hall, and he spares a moment to feel a pang of sadness for Aveyard. They weren’t close by any means, but he was one of the few guards who regarded the Mark as nothing but an accessory. Kiernan was nice enough, but he always seemed uncomfortable around Draco. He sighs, and reaches to pull the silver doors open. As has become habit, he rolls his eyes at the engraving on them. Draco appreciates the dramatic effect, he is the descendant of two ancient wizarding lines who think everyone is out to rob their cellars after all, but this was just tacky.

He pushes them open, and veers behind the counter to his right. The goblin, Mindroek, glares at him. She has detested him since he accidentally dropped a dungbomb in the entry hall. He goes another two goblins down until he spots the set of doors he’s looking for. He is not gentle in ripping them open and throwing his dragonhide bag in the nearest chair.

Fleur glances up, and drops her quill. ‘Draco!’ Her scream is piercing. ‘Look at your eyes. Your pâleur! Mon dieu!’ 

Draco groans. ‘Fleur…’ He crosses his ankles and leans back into the chair. Fleur’s cushioning charms were impeccable. ‘I just want an assignment. Egypt, Iceland, Japan. Away.’

 She narrows her eyes. ‘Is the paperwork from your last assignment done?’ 

Draco shifts in his seat. ‘How about Italy?’ 

Fleur sets aside her parchment and rests her elbows on her mahogany desk. Her blonde hair is swept behind, and her blue eyes are lined with kohl. Draco can see why Bill married her, and why wizards ask her out despite that. ‘What was it, the quarry in Virginia, no?’ 

Draco nods his assent. It had been his first trip in that particular area of America, and he had recovered several artefacts from a cave. It hadn’t even been challenging.  ‘Well, I suppose I could fill in some of the work for you.’ Fleur says, and Draco grins. He’s already halfway off his seat and reaching for the pile of papers on her desk to search for an assignment for himself when Fleur tuts. She gently pushes him back into his seat. ‘Ah-ah, non, Monsieur.’ The words roll off her tongue gracefully. Draco crosses his arms. His accent never quite hit the mark. ‘If you tell me the reason you haven’t been here for nearly three weeks, I’ll consider giving you the hotspot that popped up in Southern Canada.’ 

Draco’s heart flutters for a second. He feels like a rookie whenever he gets an assignment, but he cannot quell the excitement that bubbles up in him. He has always loved tests, always wanted to prove himself. Then Fleur’s condition sinks in. 

‘You haven’t heard?’ he cannot hide his shock. ‘Potter’s speech was on the front page of the Prophet.'

Fleur wrinkles her nose. ‘The lying sack of garbage?’ 

Draco chuckles, remembering his own words and the consequent ripping of the paper. ‘The very same.’ 

She smiles faintly, before concern floods back into her eyes. ‘I know about your mother, Draco.’ He suddenly feels like there isn’t too much air in the room. ‘But, we both know that’s not why you weren’t here.’ 

She’s right, of course. He only started putting in less hours when he had to stay home for Mother. He’d have immersed himself in work as he always had. ‘It’s just... something silly. Don’t bother.’ 

Fleur has that arsing look in her eyes. He knows before she opens her mouth that she’s going to say his name so sadly, and tell him what is wrong with him, what he ought to do. He reaches forward, and snatches a file, not even bothering to see where it will take him. ‘I’ll owl you the Virginia papers.’ He’s in the Floo by the time he sees Fleur’s hurt scattered across her delicate features. He tries not to feel guilty.

When Draco steps out of his Floo, he throws the file on the mantelpiece. It reads ‘Dublin, Ireland’ in bold letters on top, and Draco resists the urge to split his head open on the counter in his kitchen. Ireland is too close to home, and Dublin of all places? He’s vaguely sure they have family there, and he can still smell the flowers Mother had adored in the gardens there, while Father had smiled at her. He’s filled with rage for a second, then it dissipates. He feels tired.  He leaves the file where it is. He can’t be buggered to do anything right now, he needs to sleep. He toes his shoes off and walks to his room. He stumbles to the bed, and falls into the only sleep he’s had in weeks.

*

He wakes up to sunset. The light is barely filtering through his windows, the sky is a light purple on the horizon. It’s nearly night. He can’t be arsed to get up, but he does anyway, brushing his teeth and drawing a bath for himself. He considers actually leaving his flat and going to the Mexican hole-in-the-wall down the street, but dismisses the idea. He could always buy takeaway. It saved lives. 

He phones for Chinese takeaway, and hesitates for a moment before ordering for two. He places his mobile on the mantel, and reaches for the small, silver pot of Floo powder instead. The flames burn green, and he sticks his head in, then yells, ’Blaise!’

He hears a crash, then a muffled curse. ‘Draco, you wanker!’ Blaise screams from somewhere in his flat. Another loud sound has Draco cringing, then Blaise comes into view. The buttons on his black shirt are open, showing off his collarbones and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His grey trousers are perfectly tailored. He raises his eyebrows at Draco. ‘Well?’ 

Draco puts on his most charming smile. ‘I need company.’ 

Blaise glances at his watch for a second, before shrugging. ‘Move your big head so I can come through, then.’ 

Draco retreats, sitting on the kitchen counter. He steadfastly ignores the file. Blaise always fulfilled the ‘cunning’ part of the Slytherin qualities. Draco has always suspected Blaise would have been a Ravenclaw if not for his guile. Blaise was always clever in ways Draco wasn’t- Draco may have been second to Granger in their school years, but Blaise was always the one who’d solve Arithmetic equations by making up his own formulae, who’d make Potions by doing what he felt was right, who’d use spells that weren’t even related to curses to break them in DADA. Transfiguration was the one subject Draco excelled at, and Blaise hated. It was too scientific an art for Blaise to try and change the intent or wording of spells. He believed that’s why Blaise chose to be a Transfigurations Master: he always worked under the motto of doing something others would never expect.  

He jerks as Blaise makes his way out of Draco’s fireplace. He holds four bottles of Butterbeer in his hand. He raises them in front of Draco as a mock toast. ‘Madam Rosmerta’s finest. She wasn’t pleased about me Flooing in to collect them on such short notice, so you better appreciate it.’ 

Draco makes his way to the drawing room, and collapses on the couch. The leather is soft and cool on his back. Blaise shoves a hand under Draco’s head and wiggles into the space. He lets Draco’s head fall into his lap, and hands him a Butterbeer. ‘Try not to stain the leather,’ Blaise advises. ‘Or your shirt, for that matter. It’s terribly wrinkled, so it shouldn’t matter anyhow, but imagine what Pansy would say.’ 

Draco snorts. ‘She’d lecture me about different fibres and materials till my ears fall off.’ Draco pauses, considering. ‘Perhaps even after that.’ 

Blaise laughs, and Draco feels the vibrations all the way to his toes. He takes a swig of beer, and shoves his head higher up Blaise’s thigh. Blaise flicks him on the head. ‘Careful, or we’ll have to deal with an awkward boner.’ 

Draco chuckles. ‘And we haven’t had to deal with those since fourth year, huh?’ 

Blaise grins. ‘They haven’t been awkward since fourth year,' he corrects. 'We dealt with them for a long time after that. Legendary.’ It had been. The first time it had happened was the night of the Yule Ball- Draco vaguely remembers how he’d leant against Blaise’s then narrow torso, his back to his chest. His head had rested on Blaise’s collarbone, his nose brushing his neck. They had been playing strip Exploding Snap, a favourite among the Slytherins then, and Draco had gotten rid of his robes, shirt and tie. Blaise, oddly superior at the game, had only given up his tie. Pansy was chattering in her underwear, and Draco had thought it best to steal all the warmth he could. He hadn’t even realized Blaise’s hardness poking into his back until minutes after he adjusted himself in his arms again to get comfortable. He'd been aroused with the quickness only a hormone-addled teenage boy could have been.

He remembers Blaise's heavy voice in his ear quite clearly, the warmth of his breath on Draco's face, and his fingers on Draco's waist. 'Shall we retreat to our dorms?'

Draco remembers him nodding shakily, and the room's knowing glances. He remembers Pansy's smirk, because she kept telling him 'I told you so' for the next three months. He remembers rubbing against Blaise, under him on his bed, and remembers how warm Blaise's skin felt. They'd come in under two minutes. It's faintly embarrassing to think of now.

'It only went on till sixth year because you were a sex-crazed bastard.' Draco sniffs. 'I was so chaste, so pure.'

'Oh, oh, ohh- Merlin, Salazar, Circe, fu-uck!' Blaise screams in a high pitched voice. Draco fights down a blush, and takes a healthy gulp of his Butterbeer.

'That is _not_ how I sounded.' Draco protests.

'Draco, love, I spent years wanking off to those noises. I know how they sounded.' Blaise replies primly.

Draco sits up at that. 'What, now?' He is suddenly so, so confused. They'd continued getting each other off for all of fourth year and the holidays, but... Blaise had started dating someone. Or, something had happened. Draco doesn't remember. He remembers spending half of fifth year in a rage of jealousy and pain. He remembers his relief when Blaise had finally come back to him. He remembers being angry at himself for falling in love with a boy who wanted to explore.

Blaise is staring at him. 'You knew, didn't you? Draco? Tell me you knew.'

He can't piece together anything. _Years_? He was under the impression he had been Blaise's rebound for two years, all while being halfway in love with the bastard. He'd become so used it that he hadn't even realized that he hadn't wondered whose bed Blaise found himself for weeks in sixth year. Being the pwn of an evil wizard would do that to a person. 'W-what?' he manages.

Blaise's jaw hangs open, and Draco traces his cheekbones with his eyes. He had always loved their angle, the way they formed when Blaise cast charms. He's developed his jawline now. 'Draco, I was in love with you for two fucking years. Two!' Blaise seems to be on a roll. Draco is listening vacantly. He stares at his collarbones, more deeply set in muscle than when Draco peppered lovebites onto them in his adolescence. 'From fourth years hols to bloody halfway through sixth year!' His skin is the same, though. The colour of a chocolate milkshake. He's is more muscled now, stronger, more defined in his curves. 'You tosser. I dated all those people to forget you.' His eyes always charmed Draco, slightly slanting and the colour of molten dark chocolate. His hair is still closely cropped. 'Don't tell me you didn't know, you had to. Every fucking person knew.' His full lips had tasted creamy, his neck sweet as a cookie. 'Draco.'

Draco chokes a little. 'I was, too.' He suddenly wishes one of them had picked up the courage to tell the other. They would have smiled, and kissed, and whatever Pansy considered Gryffindor-like love. Draco.. Draco wouldn't have had to suffer alone in sixth year, and he'd have someone to hold him in seventh year. Someone would have wiped away his tears in the year after the War. He wouldn't be so lonely right now. He looks at Blaise, smiling wryly. 'I wish we'd told each other.'

Blaise raises his bottle. 'Here's to hoping we get hitched in the next years, huh?'

Draco snorts, pushing his regret down his throat. Another thing Blaise had been better at was switching his emotions. Draco was always the permanent mask sort of person. 'Next thing you'll tell me that we should marry each other if we aren't by the time we're twenty-five.'

Blaise narrows his eyes. 'That only gives us two years. Let's be more generous, yes?' He pauses. 'And, as I recall, oaths like that are the plot for a Muggle movie.'

Draco coughs. 'I think the takeaway is here.' He starts down the stairs, to the door.

He can hear Blaise's footsteps behind him. 'No, no, aren't Muggle movies terribly Philistine?'

'I never said that!' Draco calls back.

'Sure, and Pans never wanted to fuck Longbottom!' Blaise replies.

Draco gags. To be fair, he can't blame Pansy completely, Longbottom truly did level up from the mousy little boy he had been. Yet, some mental images could _not_ be unseen. 'I really could have gone about living my life perfectly without being reminded of that little piece of information ever again!' He hands the boy a note and tells him to keep the change- too much again, by the look on his face. Draco shrugs. The way he sees it, that ensures several blokes to label him a philanthropist at his funeral.

He carries the takeaway bags into the lounge to find Blaise spread out on the rug, another bottle of Butterbeer in his hands. He has a familiar file in his hands. 'So, Ireland, huh? It's been a while.' It has. They'd been there nearly a year and a half ago, at Christmas time. Theo's mother had been given a permanent bed in the St. Mungo's Janus Thickey ward, and Pansy's father had just been released from Askaban. Father had just died there. They'd all needed to get pissed off their rocker's and forget. None better than the Irish to sate those needs, Blaise had declared.

'Isn't your mother in Belfast?' Draco vaguely remembers Mother sending a letter to Ms. Zabini. She had insisted on doing so for every acquaintance she had, a last momento before she was gone. He swallows thickly, and sits on the rug next to Blaise, then digs into his curry.

'Circe knows. I've lost count on which husband she's on.' Blaise stretches, then raises his torso off the floor, grabbing a container of noodles. 'I think maybe it's twelve.'

Draco whistles. 'Thank Merlin you've something large to inherit soon, then. I can't imagine what the Ministry pays you-' His own words hit him a second later. They'd always joked about Blaise ending up the richest of them all by virtue of the gold his mother would leave him. But now that Draco knows what that's like... he wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy.

Blaise notices his change in demeanor, but he has the grace not to comment on it. Draco thinks of how Pansy would scoff at him, were she here, and wonders which of his best friends he needs more. He cannot come up with an answer. 'You won't believe what tossers I have to train, Draco. You have no idea.' Draco raises an eyebrow. Blaise continues, stuffing his chopsticks full of food in his mouth elegantly (as if that were possible), 'One requires a N.E.W.T in Transfiguration to be an Auror, no? But the newest batch seems to have bollocksed their way through it. They know nothing about Animagi. The gargoyle in front of the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts would know better. And they expect me to help them turn into dragons.'

Draco feels smug when he starts to tell Blaise about his latest discovery in Virginia. 'The Curses were rudimentary, I tell you. I could've broken them in third year.'

Blaise sniffs. 'I was always better than you at Defence.'

'You never used Counter-Curses! And, besides, you wouldn't have the patience to look at the foundation, or the spellwork. It's intricate business.' Draco takes a swig of his Butterbeer to down the taste of the noodles.

Blaise scoffs. 'Psh. I'll tell you what's intricate? Fucking legal documents. Conditions everywhere! I can't be arsed to read them. It's why I can't work anywhere other than the Ministry- too many darned contracts.'

Draco smiles. The Butterbeer is warm in his throat. His thoughts seem a bit hazier around the edges. 'The only good thing about knowing when Mother was about to die was sorting out the will weeks before. I haven't had to worry about long-lost family members turning up, or solicitors of any sort.'

'You knew Narcissa set you up with Potter?' Blaise asks dubiously.

'Well, no.' Draco admits. 'That one had taken me by surprise.' Though, not full-blown shock. Narcissa Black wouldn't be herself if she didn't infringe upon her son's love life at least once a fortnight.

'You did inform him of it, right?' Blaise questions, sipping his Butterbeer. He pauses. 'Yet, I wouldn't mind filling in for him. I wouldn't refuse a good dinner.'

'Er, I think he's aware of it. Aunt Andromeda knew, there's a fair chance she told him.'

Blaise throws his empty container at Draco's head exasperatedly. 'Has been a Malfoy taught you nothing? You _know_ you have to owl before dinner. It's standard procedure. Our Mothers nearly had our heads in Christmas hols in fifth year, remember?'

Draco laughs. 'That one was entirely your fault.' Blaise had been in charge of invitations, and he'd deemed a simple note informing their guests of the time they were expected to be sufficient. Mother's horrified face had been comical when Blaise had said he hadn't even bothered with envelopes. He sighs. 'I'll write Potter.'

'When is the big night, anyway?'

Draco tilts his head. 'Friday. 8 pm reservation at the Ivy.'

Blaise whistles. 'Fancy. You going to whip about that navy blue suit you looked, as I recall, edible in?'

That has Draco blushing. 'Merlin, Blaise. I'll be there to eat and respect my late mother's last wishes, not impress Potter. You'll also recall this 'date' was not set up in the circumstance of either of us being attracted to the other.'

Blaise snags Draco's bottle, having finished his. 'Draco,' he says seriously, looking into his eyes. 'You tell me a lot of lies I would not be able to see through, but this isn't one of them.' He leans closer to Draco. 'Everyone, and I mean _everyone_ , in the Continent has thought of Harry bloody Potter naked in their sheets at least once. And I know you're no saint.' He falls back onto the floor.

'His robes do fit him deliciously, don't they?' Draco keeps the bottle on the ground between his legs after he takes another swig, then leans on the couch. Blaise has a knowing, shit-eating grin on his face, the tosser. Draco blushes as he realizes what he's just said. 'I mean that, of course, in the most observational and non-sexual way possible.'

Blaise just laughs in his face. Draco has entirely unhelpful, nonsupporting friends.

*

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from:['House Of Gold' by Twenty-One Pilots.](//www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDyxykpYeu8)  
> Constructive Criticism appreciated? This is my first fic. It'd be easier for future reference.  
> Send me things on Tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hollythewizardtributefromcabin3).  
> Thank you, especially those who've left comments and kudos.  
> 


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco quells the rising grief threatening to close his throat, raises a glass instead, looking at Potter's emerald eyes. He anchors himself to them, and tries not to cry when he hears Mother's voice in his head, telling him about the extraordinarily talented Muggleborn a few years under her at Hogwarts. Potter's glass clinks against his.  
> His eyes glint, his smile is shaky.  
> 'To Narcissa Black.'  
> They drink.
> 
> [Or Harry and Draco have nothing in common apart from love for Narcissa. When she's gone, her last wish is for them to try and find peace within each other.]

Draco tickles the serpent on his toothbrush lightly as he brushes his teeth. He has set up a myriad of objectives for himself: owl Potter, apologize to Fleur, exchange the Ireland file for the Canadian one, thank Blaise and visit the grave. He ponders the last one lightly and wonders whether is symbolizes anything. Millie, bloody analyst, would say he was finally accepting Mother's demise from the world, but not from within his truest heart of hearts. Pansy would sarcastically congratulate him on attempting to reason with a headstone. On that note, he tacks 'do dishes' and 'eat at Mexican joint down the street' on the list.

He decides to go to Gringotts as soon as he can. He'd rather finish this apologizing business quick- Draco still hated to be the one to say 'sorry' first. Then, he'd sneakily exchange his file (or pretend to be so as he steadfastly ignored Fleur's eyes on his hands), and prepare to immerse himself into Southern Canada's undoubtedly extensive history. He pays no attention to what sounds suspiciously like Blaise's voice telling him he was merely putting off writing Potter. Besides, who knew if the prat would even be awake at this time in the morning?

He Apparates to Diagon Alley with a buttered toast in hand, giving Kiernan his wand with the other. He rolls his eyes, as is customary, at the silver engraved doors; then, for good measure, glares at Mindroek. His is in a relatively pleasant mood as he enters the Deputy Head-Curse Breaker's office, the most shameful look he can manage on his face. The look Fleur gives him implies it will take him more than that to find a ladder out of the hole he's dug for himself.

'Fleur. Je suis désolé. Je suis conscient que je suis moins que agréable, et je regrette d'avoir pris sur vous.' Draco's accent is shaky, the words roll off his tongue awkwardly. He is dubious about his grammar, but he’s hoping the mother-tongue front will earn him some points. ‘J'espère que vous me pardonnerez.’  

She glances at him for a second. ‘I expect a chocolate soufflé on my desk every day for the next two months.’ 

The woman drives a hard bargain. ‘One month.’ 

She narrows her eyes. ‘A month and three weeks.’ 

He sighs. ‘A month and a half.’ 

She smiles amiably enough that Draco nearly forgets she once threatened to hex his balls off for mistaking a satin-sheen gold lipstick for a goldenrod colour. She hands him a file thicker than the ones he’s used to. ‘Southern Canada. Study up.’ 

He’s so very grateful for her. He reaches for his bag, to extract the file he had snatched the day before, but Fleur smiles wider. ‘Oh, no. You get to keep that one too. A present, yes?’ Glancing at his gobsmacked face, she winks. ‘La clémence, eh?’ 

He groans, wholly aware that he deserves it. ‘Indeed. I imagine I’ll need to submit a pre-practical report on the cursework by tomorrow?’ 

Fleur hums. ‘No, bring it in on Monday. Your international papers will only be ready by Tuesday, at any rate.’ 

He gathers his papers into his bag, mentally scratching two things off his list. He takes off to Eeylops Emporium. He selects a grey owl with soft yellow eyes, which hoots as he scraps another note in the bin. He is well brought up in social norms, yet he doesn’t know how to go about this. What is the appropriate greeting to the man who you hated, with whom your dead mother has arranged a date? 

Finally, he reassures himself that Potter, of all people, will not comment on how Draco has worded his letter. He settles on writing in his cursive, rather than his print, to make it harder for Potter to read. He feels undeniably smug as he pens carefully: 

‘ _Mr. Potter,_

_I write this in hope that you are aware that my mother, Narcissa Black, has in her last will and testament arranged a dinner for us at The Ivy tomorrow evening at 8 pm. I request your presence, if not for my sake, then my mother’s._

_Draco Malfoy_.’ 

Satisfied, he buys the owl a treat, and ties the envelope with the letter to her foot. ‘Get this to Harry Potter, okay?’ The owl hoots, and Draco wonders, fleetingly, whether the owl too knows what a ridiculous notion it is. ‘If he replies, bring it back to me, not here.’ The owl takes off through one of the large windows. 

He then makes his way to the Floo tucked into the back of the shop, pinching some powder between two fingers, and saying as clearly as possible, 'Atrium, Ministry of Magic!' The sensation of passing through several fireplaces hits him, and he finally appears in the bustle of the Ministry. He brushes soot off his grey wool robe, and makes his way to the golden grilles, and enters the least crowded lift he can see. He curses once he realizes Blaise is working with the Auror department, all the way down in Level Two. Draco is going to have to suffer that horrible voice blather on about every sodding department of the Ministry, _and_ it's subdepartments. Draco sighs, and resigns himself to his fate.

*

Draco leaves Blaise's office fifty Galleons lighter, having set them down for Ballycastle Bats' victory tomorrow. Theo'd put twenty on the Falcons, he'd learned, stating that the winds were changing if the Cannons won against the bloody Tornadoes. Theo is an idealist. He stops as he approaches a flower vendor, tucked in between TerrorTours and Slug and Jiggers' Apothecary. There is a blonde-haired girl, just barely out of Hogwarts by the look of her, tending to a bunch of peonies. Draco coughs.

She turns, and the smile she had put on fades a little as she sees him. He hasn't introduced himself, and he doesn't need to. There's not a lot of wizards his age left, and none of them sport pale blond hair. 'Yes?' She doesn't look at his face, eyes hovering near Draco's shoulder.

He rolls his eyes. Only daft idiots did that to avoid eye-contact. Draco wonders if he should tell her that she should shift her eyes between two selected points on his upper face to maintain the illusion that she was, indeed, looking at him, but dismisses it. Why give others fair advantage when they don't seem fit to return it? He is slightly miffed, though. He won't admit it anywhere but the safety of his mind, but he'd spent nearly half a year only interacting with his closet friends, and Healers who didn't give a damn about his lineage, only his mother's curious case. He clears his throat, and the blonde's eyes dart to his face for a second. 'A dozen cornflowers, please?'

She nods, and reaches for a bunch, carefully shearing them to an equal length with her wand. She is still pruning them as she says, 'Ten sickles.'

He accepts the flowers and presses a Galleon to her palm. 'Keep it.' He doesn't wait to see her reaction, turning on his foot and Apparating to the Wiltshire countryside. He can hear the sounds of children playing from the far end of the park. He trudges up the slight slope, and there, warded against Muggles and intruders, lies his Mother's grave, He places the cornflowers on the stone, and leans against the tree beside the headstone.

He closes his eyes, rough bark digging into the back of his head. He knows he'll be finding particles of wood in his hair for days. He can't bring himself to be arsed about it. He finds if he stills enough, he can imagine himself in this very area a decade ago, Mother's tinkering laugh on the wind as he and Pansy rolled down the hill, Blaise cackling manically as he chased after them. He can hear Father's sigh, imagine the fond smile he'd later adamantly refuse he'd worn, the picnic the elves had set for them. He thinks that was truly the last piece of innocence he'd had in his life. He imagines it was Mother's last, untainted memory as well. He nearly cries when he thinks of that.

Mother deserved so many happy memories. She deserved better than the slow sap of magic leaving her veins, drained to a world she'd soon see. He can't bear the thought. He tries his best to focus on all the voices telling him it wasn't his fault, it was the fucking Dark Lord's, one too many Cruciatus curses that had done her in. The guilt filters in anyway.

He opens his eyes, and doesn't remember how much time has passed. He feels a bit disoriented, and there's a crick in his neck. His eyes falls on smooth marble, and he sees his pale reflection in it. 'I'm sorry,' he whispers to it, and Apparates to his flat before he begins to sob.

He lands just outside the Anti-Apparation wards in the hallway. 'Bollocks,' he mutters. At least none of his nosy neighbours were in sight, they all thought he was a madman anyway. Thank Merlin for small mercies. He fumbles for his key in the pockets of his trousers, and pushes into his flat. He catches sight of the heap of plastic containers in his kitchen, as well as used crockery. He sighs, rolling his sleeves up, preparing to tackle them. He is determinedly not thinking of graves, or mothers.

He stops short as he sees a grey owl perched ostentatiously on the windowsill. It takes him a moment to recall it. He rubs at his eyes, which burn from lack of sleep, and hands the owl a treat from a box on the pane. He places a few Sickles in the bag on its leg, and takes the letter. 'Go back to the Emporium.' The owl hoots, and takes off, afternoon sun casting a soft glow. Draco glances at the sky. It's cloudy, and it's not surprising. He opens the letter.

It's short, and written in a horribly messy scrawl, and Draco wonders if Potter purposely wrote his words so they indecipherable. His mind, unbidden, comes up with an image of Potter next to him in Potions, trying to write what Snape said. Draco snorts lightly. The prat's handwriting was always this bad.

'Malfoy,

 I'll be there.

 - HP.'

So cryptic, Draco muses. He tosses the parchment over his shoulder and strides to the sink, gathering empty takeaway boxes. He debates spelling the dishes clean, then remembers how Mother always said it never really cleaned the plates. Hand-washed was always the way to go. He sighs, and decides that he'll be too tired to go to the Mexican joint today. He'd rather fall asleep on the couch, nursing a Firewhisky.

*

It's half past six in the evening, and Draco is worried. He hasn't worked out any details with Potter. Were they going to meet there? Or take a car together? What time should Draco leave, how was the traffic, the weather? Would it rain? (Yes, it would.) Should Draco go early to make sure everything was fine, or later, so he could show Potter how indifferent he was to this entire ordeal? And what was he going to wear? He does what anyone anxious about a date does. He calls Pansy Parkinson.

Five minutes later, there is a huffy woman in his kitchen, black stilettos clicking impatiently. Her hair brushes her jaw angrily, if that was even possible. Her makeup is wearing off. 'You better have a good reason for interrupting my shoot.'

Draco rolls his eyes, panic roiling in his throat. 'It was over, don't be a bint.' He turns to his room, not waiting to see if she's following. 'Anyway, I think you'll absolutely love this. I have date issues.'

He can practically feel Pansy's spirits lift to heaven- or hell, in this case. She's overly interested in first dates, which Blaise and Draco both suspect is because she's been on too many of her own that have ended in disappointment on her end. Blaise's mother is a victim too. They refer to it fondly as the 'Casual Whoring Syndrome'. He opens his door to reveal his room- a mess of robes, trousers, shirts, and unsent notes. Pansy whistles. 'You certainly need my help.'

She picks out a white shirt, and flings an ironing charm towards it. She orders Draco out of his long-sleeved t-shirt, and makes sure he doesn't wrinkle the shirt as he wears it. Draco doesn't bother pointing out that the charm could have been placed _after_ he wore the shirt, but Pansy's in her element right now- she might actually set his insides on fire if he disturbs her. He watches as she silently picks out articles of clothing off his bed and from his wardrobe. Finally, she stands with three suits in her hand- navy blue, black, and deep grey in colour. She hands him the blue one, reasoning, 'It'll bring out the grey in your eyes.'

Draco breaks. 'Won't the grey one do that?' She fixes him with a glare so intense that, had he been a weaker man, he would have withered. He sets to work stripping out of his current trousers, and slipping the items on. He  _sensibly_ casts an ironing charm after he wears them, and closes the first button on the blazer. Pansy hands him a pair of shoes he didn't know he owned, and frowns at the parchment scattered everywhere. 'For Potter,' Draco states helpfully. She raises an eyebrow, and he elaborates,'I didn't know what the.. arrangement was.'

Pansy looks at him like he is an idiot. She takes a quill, and writes, reciting, 'Potter, I will be meeting you at The Ivy's entrance at precisely five to eight. Signed, DM.'

Draco wrinkles his nose. 'Mister Potter, please. And my full name, not initials. I'm not a classless tosser.' Pansy rolls her eyes, but makes the changes anyway. She gets up, then stops in her tracks, glaring at Draco. It takes a second to strike him. He clears his throat. 'Right. I don't own an owl to deliver said letter to Potter.'

Pansy resumes stomping to the fireplace. She yells over her shoulder, 'Fix your hair. And I don't mean like that slicked back look.' Draco sighs. That had been his original plan. Potter knew him in a certain way, and he wasn't about to use this 'date' to change that. No matter what Mother hoped. Then again, he'd be mad to defy Pansy before he goes on a date. Weighing his pros and cons, he decides to brush his hair, letting a few strands fall over his forehead. He can hear Pansy's heels gain. He turns to see her holding a parchment.

'Turns out Potter lives quite close to me. Close enough that Idgie came back with a reply just as I was in the Floo.' Pansy seems oddly indifferent to this.

Draco reaches for the letter. All it states is a brief ' _Okay_.' He snorts. Eloquent. He hadn't even signed the letter, much less addressed it. Mother would have had Draco's guts on a spear if she ever saw him write a missive like that. He forces a ball of pain that has risen at the back of his mind back down. He checks his watch. Seven o'clock. He supposes he should hail a taxi now. He'd appreciate the time to think. Besides, looking at the London lights through a rain-streaked glass had an appeal that Draco couldn't get enough of. Pansy kisses his cheek as she goes towards the Floo, and tells him to try and befriend Potter. 'It's what Narcissa would have wanted,' she says, eyes sad.

Sometimes, Draco wonders if Pansy misses Mother as much as Draco. He sits in the taxi, and pulls the collar of his coat closer to his neck in a feeble attempt to prevent the rain from trickling down his back. It's not truly the season for a woollen coat, but the rare times Draco wore it Mother had smiled sadly enough to know that he looked like Father. He hated the comparison, but Mother had a look in her eyes that said she was glad to see glimpses of Lucius in her life now. He wonders what would have been he had agreed to go on a date with Potter while Mother was still alive, whether instead of Pansy, it would be Mother who smoothed the lapels of his blazer and smiled at him as he left. His throat feels dry, and he spends the rest of the ride memorizing the lines of city lights through water, trying not to think.

When Draco leans in front and hands the driver a few notes, he sees a vaguely Potter-esque man hovering near the [s](https://www.google.co.in/maps/uv?hl=en&pb=!1s0x487604cd73cacb55%3A0xf70e3382d1ea5dc9!2m5!2m2!1i80!2i80!3m1!2i100!3m1!7e115!4shttps%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Flh%2Fsredir%3Funame%3D101548693863499131148%26id%3D6155786876727570322%26target%3DPHOTO!5sthe%20ivy%20london%20-%20Google%20Search&imagekey=!1e4!2s13581563&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=0ahUKEwjzveeg8e_MAhWIkpQKHXvPDzIQoioIiQEwDg)tained glass window. He frowns, and checks his watch. Seven to eight. Potter is on time. Early, even, and Draco is pleasantly surprised. He steps out of the car, and watches Potter tip his head back to stare at the glass. The blues look deeper in the night, and the reflection of the neon pink lights from across the road lights up the moon in the middle, making the surrounding blue appear a soft purple. It looks stunning, and Draco isn't even paying attention to the glass.

Potter wears a royal blue t-shirt and a grey blazer. His trousers are black. Draco would scoff at such terrible style, but Potter.. he actually manages to pull it off quite well. The blazer only accentuates his broad shoulders, and the slim-fit trousers showed off his legs very nicely. His glasses reflected the blues and whites, swirling together as though someone had cast an Agumenti. Draco is acutely aware of the water hitting his coat, and he hurries to the ledge under which Potter stands.

'I never took you for an aesthete, Potter.' Potter startles, and looks up at him. He flushes a little, ruffling his coiffed hair. It still manages to look like art, much to Draco's chagrin.

'I decided I've died enough times that I should start appreciating the finer things in life.' He returns his gaze to the window.

Draco mourns the fact that this isn't a date with a handsome man who is _not_ Potter. He would have immediately assured his hypothetical date that Draco was certainly a finer thing of life, and he really should start appreciating him. Alas, this _was_ Potter, so instead, Draco replies, 'I hope you've appreciated enough, because we do have a reservation. And while The Ivy is quite virtuous, it has a notable vice in handing off reserved tables to customers who aren't late.'

Potter chuckles, and makes his way to the glass doors, asking the hostess, 'Reservation under Malfoy?'

She looks through her book, then looks up and nods at them. She leads through the bar to the tables at the far back. She stops at a table backed by a white window, cut into diamonds, some of them filled in various hues. She proffers a chair to Draco, and he smiles at her, taking a seat. He lays his serviette on his lap, and reaches for a menu. He looks up when his fingers meet emptiness. Potter looks similarly confused on the other side of the table.

A waitress appears at his elbow, a bottle of champagne in his hands. She tips it into Draco's glass, then Potter's. Draco waits patiently until she straightens, then leans forward, a request for two menus ready on his lips. Potter beats him to it. 'Could we have a menu, please?'

It is taxing for Draco to refrain from frowning. Yet, he manages to maintain his mask, and his dining etiquette. Unlike Potter. It seemed that he didn't have his family drill into his head the difference between a request and a question, and how he must never ask someone who was supposed to serve him a _question_. It gave a choice. He waits for the waitress's answer, but it doesn't come. Her eyes dart between him and Potter fearfully. 'Yes?'

'Er, Mr.Malfoy?' she stammers, still looking at both of them.

'That would be me,' he answers.

She fixes him with an awkward gaze. 'As we understand it, sir, your mother organized this dinner for you in her...' She hesitates, 'Will?'

Ah. So this is what it was about. Draco doesn't say anything, merely nods. He can feel Potter's eyes on him as well.

'She has taken the liberty of setting and paying for a personalized three-course meal for the both of you, and our chefs have already prepared it for you.' At the lack of reactions from either of them, she hesitates again. 'Of course, if you prefer-'

Draco has to swallow a great longing to focus his eyes again. 'No,' he cuts her off sharply. He silently berates himself for interrupting her, and thinks of apologizing before continuing, 'We will have what she has selected.' She nods, and walks away. He takes a large gulp of his blanc de noir, and forgets Potter is there until he hears a soft clearing of a throat.

'You know, Narcissa made me promise to abide by her will when she told me she was going to die.' Potter glances at Draco, judging his reaction. He is surprised that Potter, of all people, does not tiptoe around the subject or, indeed, Draco himself. 'I didn't understand then. I thought she meant that I must accept what she leaves me, not...' He trails off.

'A dinner with her son?'

Potter smiles wryly. 'That. Most parents would prefer to be as far away from their offspring's love life.'

Draco snorts. 'The way Mother is, I'd be married with a child two years ago.' He doesn't catch his mistake until it is too late. Potter seems to have noticed too, and he has a mesh of sadness and pain in his eyes. It catches Draco off guard.

'Is that a Narcissa thing, or a pureblood thing?'

Draco furrows his brows. 'Both, actually. Mother always said she wanted to see me as happy as she was when she got married. Something about glows and what not.'

Potter smirks. 'Pregnancy glow?'

Draco splutters. 'No! You-' He makes a sound so undignified he is surprised other patrons aren't staring. 'And, for the record, I would never agree to carrying a baby. I've heard it does terrible things for one's posture.'

Potter seems amused. 'Because posture is the worst that could come out of it. Not lactating, or anything.'

Draco thinks of suing Potter for making him lose him cool for a second time, especially in a fine dining establishment. He glares. 'Has no one taught you manners? You don't mention,' he looks around, lowering his voice, 'lactating at a dinner.'

Potter is enjoying this. Draco can tell. 'I didn't take you for a prude.'

Draco sniffs. 'There is a definite difference between prudish and mannerly.'

'And you sit on the fence very precariously, Malfoy.' Potter returns, and this was just unfair. Draco had fully expected a messy boy with a raging temper when he came to the Ivy today, not this handsome, quick-tongued _man_. He is a stranger to him, and he doesn't know whether to revert into envy or not. He is saved from immediately making a decision when the waitress returns, two plates balanced in her hands. She places one in front of Draco. He takes a sniff discreetly, categorizing lemon and another fragrance he remembers vaguely. A quick glance to Potter's plate establishes that they both have the same food.

'Red Sea Tiger prawns, with burnt lemon and Piri-Piri butter,' she announces. 

Draco takes his knife and fork in hand, taking a cautious bite of the still hot food. Potter, evidently waiting for Draco to eat first, reaches for his cutlery too. Draco lifts the side of his lips in a soft smirk. 'So, you aren't absolutely uneducated in dining convention,' he observes.

Potter smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'One must always wait for the host to begin.' He stares at his hand as he says, 'And the host is always the one who pays. In this case, though..' He chokes.  It takes Draco a moment to remember why the words sound so familiar. That was always what Mother said when she explained to Draco, yet again, why he must wait before he could eat. Potter meets his eyes, and Draco realizes he too has been imparted this lesson before.

Draco quells the rising grief threatening to close his throat, raises a glass instead, looking at Potter's emerald eyes. He anchors himself to them, and tries not to cry when he hears Mother's voice in his head, telling him about the extraordinarily talented Muggleborn a few years under her at Hogwarts. Potter's glass clinks against his.

His eyes glint, his smile is shaky. 'To Narcissa Black.' They drink.

Draco eats silently for a few bites before the thought crosses his mind. 'When did Mother ever teach you that?'

Potter seems to have been shaken out of some reverie at his words. 'What?'

Draco rolls his eyes. 'The entire ordeal about hosts,' he elaborates.

Potter's eyes clear. 'Oh, that. We went to dinner once, at a café in Trafalgar Square. It was right after the War, and well. As you can probably imagine, I wasn't exactly dining in hotels for the past few years. My manners were abominable,' he blushes. 'And thank Merlin too, because I had a lunch with Kingsley the next week.'

Draco nearly chokes on his prawns. 'Kingsley Shacklebolt? The Minister for Magic?'

Potter looks at Draco carefully, swallowing a mouthful. 'That is the only Kingsley I know.'

Draco stares at him for a second, then laughs shakily. Of course, Harry bloody Potter would meet the sodding Minister for Magic every weekend for a casual chit-chat. 'Of course. Apologies.'

Potter scrutinizes Draco. 'I know what you're thinking,' he declares finally. At Draco's raised eyebrow, he merely shrugs. 'You're thinking, because I'm the Saviour, the Minister and I dine together everyday, or something.' Draco doesn't say anything when Potter pauses, instead taking a bite of his seafood. He continues. 'You're wrong, you know. He was part of the Order, and he saved my life several times. Things like that tend to bring people close.'

Draco doesn't know why he says it, but he does. 'As I recall, we've saved each other's lives before. We aren't any closer, are we?' He takes a sip of his champagne. 'There's a hole in your theory,' he says, just to pretend that his outburst had a conclusion.

Potter frowns. 'Well, they're different cases. We hated each other before we helped each other out, and now we're civil towards each other, aren't we? Kingsley and I had no true relation to each other before the whole life saving business, so we're good friends.'

'Civil still isn't close,' Draco points out.

Potter looks at him. 'Well, we're getting there.' The air between them seems charged, and Draco always seems to notice how very green Potter's eyes are. They both sit still for a moment, looking at each other. Draco clears his throat, looking down at his plate instead. Potter blushes, and continues, 'In fact, Ron and Hermione hated each other. Look at them now.'

'They're dating?' Draco asks. He recalls Pansy talking about something or the other many months ago on a Firecall, but he can't for the life of him remember whether it was about Granger and the Weasel, or other Gryffindors.

'That's actually a good question. I should figure that out sometime.'

Draco starts. 'Aren't they your best friends? Shouldn't you know this? I think I'd make it my business to know if, Merlin forbid, Pansy and Blaise started shagging.'

Potter wrinkles his nose. 'No offense, but Parkinson and Zabini would cause the apocalypse if they dated.'

Draco laughs. 'Agreed. Circe knows anyone within a five-kilometer radius would go deaf with all the arguing. And the admittedly loud make-up sex.'

Potter looks fairly disturbed. 'I think the real question here is why you know how your best friends sound when they shag.'

Draco looks up, smirking. 'I know how everyone in Slytherin sounds when they're getting it off. I'll bet a large sum of my money that the rest of Slytherin knows how I sound, too.' Potter looks horrified, and Draco is gloating. 'We played several sexual games when we were in third and fourth year. All of us have kissed each other, if not more, at some point.'

'What's your record, then?' Potter looks curious, and it suits him.

'Let's see. I've snogged Vincent, Greg, Sally Smith and Tracey Davis; shagged Pansy, Blaise and Daphne; and gotten blown by Theo and Millie.' He counts off on his left hand. Frowning, he adds, 'Blaise managed to fuck Sally, too, but none of us know how. She was too shy to play many games with us.'

Potter seems overwhelmed by this information. He doesn't even notice when the waitress returns, clearing the table of their plates. 'You've slept with your best friends? And there's.. nothing?'

'No awkwardness, you mean?' Draco asks, pressing his serviette to his lips. 'Of course not. They've shagged each other too, in our dorm, while I was in my bed. It was horrifying, and I'm glad it was only the one time.' He pauses. 'Well, to the best of my knowledge, at least.'

'No, no. I mean, they are your closest friends, right? Objectively speaking, they would who you were the most emotionally attached to at that age. And, with the added shagging, wouldn't you have a more, er, romantic feeling?'

'Merlin, you sound like Millie.' He pauses, considering. 'Well, I suppose you have a point. There was that period where Pansy was always stuck to me. But, to be honest, none of us frequently shagged. It was always a one-off. The only one I've fucked more than thrice is Blaise, and...' And he _had_ fallen arse over tits in love with him. Well, not all of Potter's theories are codswallop, then.

'And?' Potter is still looking at him.

'And there wasn't anything different with him, either.'

Potter frowns. 'Well, that's good for you, then.' He reaches for his wine glass, sipping his bubbly, and Draco traces the line of his throat and jaw. Merlin, if Draco thought he was attractive in his loose Qudditch robes, he doesn't know how he's still standing with Potter in these tight-fitting Muggle clothes sitting across from him. 'Hold on.' Potter is looking at him, eyebrows furrowed. His mouth slowly spreads into a bright grin. 'Did you say you _kissed_ Crabbe and Goyle?'

Draco groans. 'Must you focus on the less tasteful parts of my childhood adventures?' He shakes his head, knifing a prawn. 'If you  must know, it was dreadful. So dreadful, in fact, I very nearly threw up afterwards.'

'I imagine so.' Potter says, and well, he really dug that hole for himself.

'Did you, Potter?' Draco smirks. 'Toss off in your bed thinking about them, did you?'

Potter isn't even shaken, though there are two spots of pink on his cheeks. 'I'm sure that's what you'd like me to wank to. Unfortunately for you, I had better taste, and imagination, than that.'

Draco is so very tempted to ask him about his apparently superior taste and imagination, and is actually considering asking him when the waitress returns, two plates balanced delicately in her hands. She places them onto the table. 'Seared scallops with maple glazed coppa and cauliflower gremolata for Mr. Malfoy, and Shepherd's Pie for his guest.' She smiles at them, and nods slightly, before disappearing.

Draco begins to eat, when he notices Potter is merely starring at his plate. His eyes seem.. haunted, his lips are slightly parted. His hand is still in mid-air, reaching out towards the stem of his glass. His eyes are burdened with sadness, and Draco realizes that Mother's death had hurt him in a way Draco wouldn't be able to fully comprehend. He wonders how it must be for Potter. He must have lost so many people in the War. People he thought family. And, now, when he finally thought his loved ones would be safe, Mother.. Draco feels the ridiculous urge to clasp Potter's hand. He pushes it down, instead asking, 'Potter?'

He jerks his head up to meet Draco's eyes. His green eyes are vibrant, sadness and tears swirling together into an abyss of pain. 'Narcissa, she-' His voice breaks off, watery. He swallows. 'I've always maintained that a shared Shepherd's pie is what it feels like to have a family, a home.'

Draco doesn't know what to say to that, and he doesn't know what to do with this person in front of him. He returns to his scallops, watching Potter carefully bite into his pie with the saddest eyes this side of London. He cannot fathom Potter, is the thing. He is so very _open_. Here he sits, telling Draco about how he wants a family and a home, as if he has no regard for his own self-preservation. Draco could mock him for harbouring these wishes, he could hurt him. He has before, in fact. How could Potter trust Draco with his thoughts? Only Mother had done so before, without any ulterior motives, but she knew all of Draco anyway. It took a long time for Pansy, Blaise, Theo and Millie to trust Draco, longer for him to trust them with any inhibitions. He simply doesn't know what to do with these facts that the Saviour is placing in Draco's hands.

Neither of them say a word until the waitress approaches again to clear the table for dessert. Potter still seems engrossed in his thoughts, and Draco suddenly feels like he owes the man something. Potter has laid himself bare to Draco. 'You know, it took me a long while to figure out the difference between a house and a home. The Manor has always been cold and dark, but it was my home. Then, in fifth year, Blaise's boyfriend, some younger Ravenclaw, came down to the dorms and kept complaining about how damp and chilly it was. But I'd never felt anything out of the ordinary there. Slytherin was my true home.'

Potter's eyes have gone slightly wide. 'Hogwarts,' he corrects softly. 'Hogwarts was your home. What is your home now?'

Draco doesn't know. 'I think I'm still looking for it.'

'I don't think I'll ever find it,' Potter confesses.

Draco smiles wryly. 'We can always go back, can't we? I can teach DADA and you can replace ol Madam Hooch.'

Potter smiles widely. 'Sure you'll be able to last more than a year?' he teases.

Draco is about to respond with a cheeky comment of his own when a a plate is kept in front of him. He looks up at the waitress, who tells Potter, 'Treacle tart for the sir, and brown sugar tart for Mr. Malfoy.'

It's Draco's turn to be taken aback with food, of all things, Merlin. He wills himself to calm down, and glances at Potter who reflects Draco's look. He stares at the waitress. 'You don't make brown sugar tart at The Ivy.'

She smiles at him. 'We don't, but we deemed this occasion an exception.' She nods, then walks away, Draco still immersed deep within his thoughts. Mother is a tricky woman. All these dishes, they're certainly no coincidence. No doubt she thought the food would cause Potter and Draco to spill their best memories. And, to be fair, Draco muses, it had worked.

He looks at Potter. He shrugs a shoulder, smiling sadly. 'Narcissa always knows. Treacle tart reminds me of Hogwarts,' he explains.

He looks at Draco expectantly, waiting for his reason. The words get stuck in his throat. 'The house-elves,' he blurts. Potter looks at him confusedly, spooning a bite of his tart. Draco clears his throat, blushing. 'They made brown sugar tart that Mother adored. Father always said that the only reason he successfully wooed her was because he brought her a brown sugar tart every time they met.' Draco smiles softly, memories flooding him like a warm blanket had been placed on his shoulders. 'He pretended it was a grand gesture every time we dined at the Ledbury. He went to the kitchens and got it himself.'

Potter looks sadder at Draco's words. 'That's wonderful.' He frowns. 'Wait, wooed? I was under the impression..' he trails off.

Draco raises an eyebrow. 'That it was an arranged marriage?' Potter nods. 'Well, it was. But Mother, being characteristically Mother, insisted that she spend at least half a year with potential husbands before she made a decision. She reasoned that that was enough time to fall in love.'

Potter laughs at that, and Draco marvels at how the lamp-lights reflect off his glasses, how his lips spread into a smile. Potter has very nice lips, he thinks. He blushes when Potter looks at him curiously. 'That sounds very much like Narcissa.' He takes his serviette to blot the side of his lips when he nearly drops it. 'Merlin!' Draco raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes. 'Sorry. It's just that it's a bit late, and the Falcons and the Bats match is tonight. I try to make it my business to know who's wining.' He shrugs a shoulder. 'Part of the job, I suppose.'

Oh, yes, the match. Draco had nearly forgotten about it, but he's not too worried. The Bats are sure to win, though Draco would have preferred to listen to Theo's commentary on the WWN. He narrows his eyes at Potter. 'Is it, really?'

He laughs again. 'Not really. I'll have statistics and strategies and what not owled to me tomorrow, so there's really no point. One would expect that it would take the fun out of the game, for me. But there's just a boyish charm in hanging onto every word the commentator is saying on the radio.'

'Who, in your extremely professional opinion, do you think is going to win?'

Potter straightens. 'Well, I can't really tell. Both the teams have my utter respect, and I expect both of them to give it their best. We'll just have to see now, won't we?' He winks at Draco. He leans forward, and whispers, 'Though, just between you and me, the Falcons are so bloody buggered today, they won't be able to dig their own grave in their next match.'

Draco laughs, delighted. He places his cutlery on his plate, folding his serviette in half and putting it on the left side of his plate. 'That, Potter, may be the most wonderful thing you've ever said. I put fifty Galleons on the Bats' victory.'

'Didn't Theo tell you about it anyway?' Potter asks.

Draco wrinkles his nose at Potter's first name basis with Theo, but apparently, being a commentator meant you interacted with the players frequently too. He snorts softly. 'Theo is holding onto false hopes. He's under the impression that since the Cannons won against the Tornadoes, pigs can fly.'

'Well, he's not wrong. I'll be honest, I thought I'd die before I ever saw a Cannons victory. Stranger things have _not_ happened.' Potter leans back as the waitress piles their crockery onto a tray, thanking them. They smile, pulling their coats on, and make their way out of The Ivy. Draco stops in front of the glass painting, turning to Potter.

'I suppose this is where we part ways. Goodnight, Potter. You weren't as tedious company as I presumed.'

Potter smiles. 'I could say the same, Malfoy. I think it's safe to assume we don't hate each other. In fact, I also think it's safe to assume that we're well on our way to, dare I say it, being friends.' Draco raises his eyebrows, unprepared for such a declaration. Potter grins back.

'Don't jinx it,' he replies, making his way into a dark alley. He can hear Potter's footsteps behind him.

Potter draws his wand, winking at Draco. 'Jinx it? Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. Goodnight, Malfoy.' A resounding crack sounds as Potter Apparates. Draco shakes his head at thin air, Apparating to his flat. He smiles at the pouch placed on his table, with a note attached, reading:

' _Wanker,_

_The Bats did win. I hope you choke on your Galleons and die._

_-Theo_.'

Draco smirks and changes into his night-clothes. He lays on his bed with a jaded smile. He's happy because he won the bet, he justifies. Not because of a certain green-eyed, scar-headed Quidditch player. Not at all.

*

The next time Draco meets Potter, he's nearly forgotten all about the dinner. He has Portkeyed to Canada approximately seventeen times, missed his weekly outing with his friends, bought Fleur eight chocolate soufflés and nearly strangled himself. He's tired, damnit. He wants to hug his mother, and let all the worry drain from his shoulders. He's halfway up the stairs in the Manor before he realizes she's fucking dead. He screams, and the chandelier is shaking, nearly brushing the stone walls. His magic is going wild, and he can't bloody control it. He can hear house-elves frantically shrieking, and there's a faint sound of something falling. He thinks that there are tears in his eyes, but he isn't sure. He can smell star anise and blood, and suddenly he's staring at a headstone, still screaming.

It takes him a moment to realize he isn't alone. It takes him another to stop screaming. 'Malfoy! Sodding bollocks, stay still- Malfoy!' He can feel arms around him, but the sounds muddle into a vortex of noise. There's blood rushing in his ears and Draco is thrumming with power that's waiting to be unleashed. He's panicking, wants the noise to stop. He screams again, trying to get rid of all the pain.

Then, it stops. There's only the sound of wind blowing through leaves. When Draco looks up, he realizes he's at the park. At the grave. His vision clears, and he sees a mess of robes out of the corner of his eye. Dread fills him, and he hopes he hasn't injured the person as he crawls towards them. The last time this happened was when the Healers told him Mother was dying and they couldn't save her. He'd broken seven bones and one heart, then.

Potter sits up when Draco is halfway near him, glasses askew. Potter is staring at him, a mixture of concern and curiosity. 'What?' Draco snaps.

Potter shakes his head. 'What _was_ that?'

Draco considers lying. But Potter's just the right amount of curious that he will need a well-crafted lie, and he's too drained. He swallows, throat suddenly dry. 'A magical outburst. It happens to wizards and witches, when they have too much energy contained.' He would feel smug, but all he can think of how soft the grass is underneath him. Then, a thought occurs to him. 'Hasn't it happened to you? It must have.'

Potter furrows his brows. 'It has, but...' He trails off, still looking at Draco. 'It's never been that powerful.' Draco shrugs, but Potter is on his feet now, eyes filled with... awe? 'No, you don't understand. I cast a Protego around myself, and stood as far from you as I could in the wards, and your magic _still_ blew me out of the wards.' Now that Potter mentions it, Draco realizes he's standing a a few feet away from the wards, at the foot of the gentle hill. 'And my Protego charms are stronger than most. Merlin, I've been there once when Hermione lost her mind, and that felt like a walk in the park compared to this.'

Draco cracks a smile. 'This _is_ a walk in the park, Potter.' He stares at Draco for  beat, then throws his head back, and laughs. It's a nice sound, Draco thinks. Like the patter of rain on the smooth surface of the Black Lake. Or darkly inked parchment being rolled. He realizes Potter has stopped laughing.

'How's your magic doing?'

Draco was really trying not to think about his temporary lack of magic, but Potter had to go and tear down that particular illusion. Draco shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. 'It'll be back in a while. Nothing to do but wait.'

Potter stares. 'Really?' At Draco's raised eyebrow, Potter continues. 'Well, I mean- it's just that, I thought of all people, you would hate to be without magic and you aren't really the type to wait around for anything, are you?'

Draco opens his mouth, but no words come out. Potter's right, of course, but... how had he known that? Only Blaise and Millie knew how much he resented these outbursts, because he felt so bloody drained without the warmth of his magic in his body. He's not uncomfortable without Potter knowing such a vital piece of information, though. He isn't refuting his comment. He looks at Potter, and says, 'Well, I can't do anything about it.'

Potter lifts a corner of his lips in a smirk. It looks good on him. 'It turns out that three and a quarter bottles of Firewhisky is the approximate time for me to get my magic back.' He pauses. 'Wanna test yours?'

Draco's heart is hammering with excitement and adrenaline. It's been a while since he's done something senseless. Too long. Ever since the funeral he's tried to keep himself so busy, and all his friends are tiptoeing around him. Even Pansy, who mocks his melancholy, seems to be giving him space. He doesn't want space. He wants reckless. He smirks right back at Potter. 'That's a challenge I'm willing to meet.'

They stand, and Potter offers his arm to Draco. He clutches it, and they both stumble outside the Three Broomsticks. Draco drops his hand from Potter's (muscular, Merlin, how had he not noticed before?) arm, and spares him a confused glance. He'd expected to end up at the Leaky, not all the way up here in Hogsmeade. Potter opens the door. 'If we're competing between ourselves, it's only fair we do it on the same grounds.'

They sit at the bar, and Madam Rosmerta smiles warmly at Potter. She goes to greet Draco, then glares. 'I'm still not forgiving Blaise Zabini's outrageous demands that he will not leave my bar until he has enough Butterbeer to 'make sodding Draco less annoying''. He blushes, cursing fucking Blaise and vowing to mutilate his comic collection, but Rosmerta's amused smile indicates he's been forgiven.

Potter has a grin playing on his face, but he turns to Rosmerta before he can be subject to the scowl Draco sends his way. 'Firewhisky, please. Just keep bringing 'em.'

Rosmerta reaches under the bar, and places a bottle in front of them, eyeing them warily. 'I'd ask, but I know it's not worth it. Don't break anything,' she warns, walking away, undoubtedly to serve more sane patrons.

Potter pops the cap of the bottle, handing it to Draco. His lips are curled into a half smile. 'Go on, then.'

Draco frowns. 'What, without a glass?'

Potter rolls his eyes. 'We're at a drinking establishment. That's the point.'

Draco grasps the neck, eyes glinting. He proceeds to down more than half the bottle in a go. His tongue strays out to lick off a drop that remained on his lower lip. Potter looks overwhelmed, and entirely shocked. 'Impressed?' Draco grins slyly.

Potter gulps, and Draco follows the line of his throat and his Adam's Apple. 'You could say that.' Draco puts the bottle to his lips again. 'Trust me, Malfoy, I do _not_ mean to stroke your ego, but I bar hop with competitive Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw and I haven't seen anyone chug like that.'

Draco is very smug. He swipes a finger over his upper lip, wrinkling his nose. ' _Chug_? What a plebeian word.'

Potter grabs at the bottle that has appeared on the wood between them, looking amused. 'You mean American?'

Draco tilts his head, faux frowning. 'What's the difference, then?'

Potter chuckles, shaking his head. 'Out with your wand, then.'

'What now?' Draco questions, confused.

'Your wand. We have to check whether your magic is back, don't we?' Draco nods, reaching for his wand, hidden in the folds of his robes. 'Ideally, we'd check at every quarter bottle interval, but I doubt your it's back after that massive outburst. Besides, the way you drink...' he trails off at Draco's impatient gesture, clearing his throat. 'Right. Let's try a, er-'

'Avis charm?' Draco asks, twirling his wand between his fingers.

Potter splutters. 'The bird one? Who even remembers that? It's of no real use!'

Draco rolls his eyes. ' _The bird one_ ,' he mimics, throwing his hands up. 'Well, then, you tell me a charm everyone knows.'

' _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,' he answers. Draco rolls his eyes again, but concentrates on the empty bottle in his hand, flicking his wand, repeating the incantation. Nothing happens. Potter thrusts the second bottle in his hand. 'There you go. Go slow, will you? We want accurate readings.'

'Like you're a competent researcher,' Draco mumbles, but stops drinking when Potter gestures to him.

'An Aqua Erecto charm.' Potter says expectantly.

Draco raises his eyebrows. 'That's not a spell everyone knows, Potter.' At Potter's growing complacence, he amends, 'Not that _I_ don't know it. It's just unfair to use this one when you thought 'the bird one',' Draco curls his fingers mockingly, 'wasn't common.'

'I said it's useless, and no one remembers it!' Potter protests, pushing his glasses up his nose.

'I'm arguing on principle.' Draco states.

Potter glares. 'Fine, then.' They both pause for a moment, thinking. Then, Potter snaps his fingers. 'You want a spell every third-year knows? For your principles?' At Draco's shrug, he smiles impishly. ' _Engorgio._ Every boy has tried to enlarge something. Well, I say _something_ , but I mean-'

Draco flushes. 'Yes, you've made your point. Though,' Draco muses, 'I never had any use of it. Why you seem to be well-acquainted with enlarging, ahem, _something_ , is unsurprising.'

Potter's blush looks richer in the Rosmerta's bright lights. 'I am not! It was always Dean, in the dorm, that's why I said-'

Draco smirks. 'Mhm. You keep talking Potter, but all I hear is feeble excuses. _Engorgio_ ,' he casts at the first bottle. It rattles a little, but looks otherwise unchanged. Draco sighs, reaching for the still full bottle. He eyes Potter from the corner of his eye for the signal to stop, but Potter is staring at the bottle in his hand vacantly. Draco pulls away from the mouth of the bottle. There's only a third left.

Potter, now fully attentive, looks at Draco. 'You can choose what spell you want now, I guess.'

'I'm getting fond of the running theme, here,' he ponders.

'It ran for one try,' Potter points out.

'And it'll run more!' Draco declares. He points his wand at Potter's crotch. ' _Erecto_.' It remains unchanged through Potter's jeans. Draco is resolutely not disappointed.

Potter smiles at Draco, leering. 'Why, Draco, all you had to do is ask.' He runs a finger down Draco's thigh. Draco laughs, and tries not to think about fantasies where he asks Potter, alright. 

'Oh, don't be a slut, Potter.' Draco grins, feeling warm. The alcohol is kicking in, and Draco feels wonderful. He lifts the bottle to his mouth, and sucks until the bottle is bone dry.

'The Gripping charm.' Potter says.

Draco raises an eyebrow. 'That doesn't run with the theme! Don't ruin all the- oh. _Oh_.' Draco is a little enthralled. 'A Gripping charm. I never thought..'

'Yeah, I know, huh? I was convinced I was the pioneer, but turns out Hermione used it way before me.' Potter looks pleased with himself. 'I outsmarted you, though, Malfoy.'

Draco frowns. 'I don't want to hear about Granger's sexual exploits. And that's not outsmarting. It's merely good use of resources.'

'Aren't Slytherins supposed to be resourceful?'

' _Saisir_ ,' Draco says loudly, wand aimed to Potter's hands. He knows it isn't going to work already, feels the missing spark of his magic. He watches Potter place the bottle on his palm, and tilt his hand slowly. It falls as soon as the side of Potter's little finger faces the ground. It crashes, and Draco swears he can hear Rosmerta's voice warning them about breaking anything.

' _Reparo,_ ' Potter mutters, waving his wand. The glass comes together to reform the bottle on the bar, where a third bottle of Firewhisky has appeared. Draco grasps it, removing the cap. He drinks. It doesn't burn his throat as much anymore, he realizes. He wonders if the past month has made him immune to it. He finds he would rather the opposite. There was some comfort in the searing heat as the whisky worked its magic. Draco puts the bottle down to laugh at his joke.

'Did you just _giggle_?' Potter's eyes have lit up.

Draco lets out another chuckle. 'No!' He glances at the bottle, noting that half of it is gone. So much for Potter's accurate readings. 'Hey, Potter do you remember the first time you had Firewhisky? Remember the burn? Do you miss it?'

Potter laughs. 'Yeah, I do. But now isn't really the time for that story.'

Draco pouts. His curiosity is insatiable. 'Why not?'

'Tell you what, if you ask me very nicely when you're sober, I'll tell you.' Potter's smile is very disarming, Draco realizes. It's very bright, and he hasn't stopped for a long time.

'Deal!' Draco agrees eagerly. 'I never forget anything.'

'Sure, Malfoy,' Potter shakes his head. 'Now, how about a spell?'

Draco pauses. His brain is sluggish as he tries to remember the more creative spells he's used in bed before. He's determined to top Potter's Gripping charm. He's also determined to top Potter, but that's neither here nor there. He points his wand at the two bottles in front of him, saying clearly, ' _Iacto._ ' The bottle closest to Draco jerks for a few seconds, then remains still.

Potter chokes. It's mildly amusing, so drunk Draco is convinced it's the funniest sight he's ever seen. 'Merlin, a Hurling Hex? They curse brooms with that!'

Draco winks. 'It's description is actually to 'cause something to rock, or vibrate violently'. It was originally a charm used for rocking chairs, but then the whole hexing business started. Terrible, I tell you.' He smirks. 'Turns out its uses aren't limited to wood.' He considers. 'Well, technically the way I used it was still wood, but, you know. _Wood_.' Draco gestures crudely.

'Malfoy, you have no idea how sincerely I want a camera right now.' Potter says this Very Seriously. It makes Draco crack up again. Potter hands him the bottle again, and he drinks until the bottle is empty. Potter looks very transfixed at this feat. He looks Draco in the eyes, and says, 'Extension Charm.'

Draco is confused. 'What in Salazar's name could you possibly expand while fucking, Potter? That charm doesn't work on dicks. That's the Enlargement Charm, we've been over this,' he explains, exasperated.

'How about an arsehole?' Potter asks demurely.

Draco's eyes widen in shock. His brain is suddenly filled with images of Potter's dick sinking into an endless heat. Or, Circe, even better- Draco's dick in Potter's endless arse. That was an idea he could get behind. 'Also, arse I can totally get behind,' he mumbles.

'What?'

'Nothing,' he replies, too quickly. ' _Capacious extremis_ ,' he casts. He watches Potter fiddle in his pockets for a Knut, then drop it into the bottle. It lands with a resounding tinkle. Draco sighs. The lack of magic is catching up with him. He feels a little hollow without the hum of his magic under his skin, fluttering at his fingertips. Potter just hands him another bottle of Firewhisky. He's silent as Draco swigs it. They're in an oddly amicable silence until Draco finally feels a tingle under his neck, near his right clavicle. He jumps with relief, jostling Potter. 'It's back!'

Potter looks at him dumbly. 'What?'

'My magic, you wanker! It's back!' Draco grins. ' _Incarceous_!' A thin, brown string flare from the tip of Draco's wand, but he feels like he just cast his first Levitation Charm at Hogwarts.

Potter snorts next to him. 'That one's so old. Everyone's used _Incarceous_ at least once. I'm disappointed.'

Draco finishes his alcohol, glaring at Potter. 'You need to improve your trash talk, Scarhead.' He feels his magic steadily increase, a strong thrum that he can feel all the way to his bones. ' _Leíos_ ,' he points at Potter's hand, smiling smugly at his sudden gasp. 'Warming lubrication charm. It's a spell that gets passed on in the Slytherin common room. And, I'll have you know, a measly thing like war didn't stop us. We made sure our juniors learned it.'

'I'm admittedly fascinated.' Potter stands, placing a few Galleons onto the teak. He wipes the sticky substance on a napkin. 'And, concluding our experiment for today,' he says, shrugging his coat on his broad shoulders, 'We have concluded-'

'You're using forms of the verb 'conclude' too much,' Draco interrupts. 'A good substitute would be 'terminate'. Wonderful word. Terminate,' Draco says again, rolling the word on his tongue.

Potter lets out an amused snort. 'Very well. To terminate today's experiment, we conclude th-'

'Again with the conclude!' Draco is exasperated.

'It's a good word for a scientific statement!' Potter protests. He covers Draco's mouth with his hand, pushing open the door to the Three Broomsticks with the other. 'To conclude, it takes Draco Malfoy four and a half bottles of Firewisky to regain his magical abilities after an outburst.'

Draco shakes his head out of Potter's grasp. 'I only had four bottles!'

Potter makes a arrogant noise. 'We have to account for the time in-between! Also, I'm fairly sure it would have been more as compared to mine, but your drinking skills are-'

'Far superior,' Draco says pompously.

'Normally, I'd deny that, but,' he sighs dramatically, 'You're right. Also, I'm hoping you're pissed enough that you remember nothing of this.'

'I'm very good at remembering things, even when inebriated,' Draco states. He frowns. 'It's not always to my benefit. There are some things you just do not want to remember.'

Potter laughs. 'Well, Malfoy, you're going to have to let me Apparate you back to your flat, seeing as you're in no state to do so.' Draco clutches Potter's arm, reciting his address. He stumbles a little as he walks up the first slight of stairs, flipping Potter the bird when he hears his snicker. He collapses, tiredness engulfing his body in a way that was completely different to before.

*

Draco wakes up fully clothed on his couch, blearily recalling that he hasn't bathed in twenty four hours. His head feels like a horde of Kneazles and Krups stomped on it, and his throat is sore. He stumbles to his kitchen, praying that Pansy had restocked his supply of Hangover Potion. He gulps a vial, head immediately clearing. He puts on the kettle for a cuppa, then sits at the table with a quill and parchment.

' _Potter,_

_It's wonderful to wake up with a raging hangover, courtesy of some tosser. It's even better to know said tosser admitted my drinking prowess is far greater than his. Superior, even. I told you I'd remember. When did you first have Firewhisky?_

_\- Malfoy._ '

He tucks it into his notes on the defenses guarding the Imperial Lighthouses in Ontario. He wanders over to his wardrobe to pull out a set of light blue robes. He bathes and brushes his teeth, humming a melody. His mood is pleasantly light, a stark contrast to the past three days, and he steadfastly refuses to think what reason there is behind it. He shoves his files and parchments into his dragonhide bag, throwing it over his shoulder.

He Apparates to the Owl Emporium, the bell above the door clanging as he goes in. He's looking up at all the perches when he sees a familiar down. To his delight, the bird seems pleased to see him too, hooting and hopping onto his shoulder. He smooths down a plume with one finger, pushing away a tuft of feathers and hay to read the inscription on the cool stone. 'Species: Great Horned Owl. Female, found in Northern America.' He smiles softly as the bird nips at his finger. 'Name: Penna.' She hoots in affirmation.

He fumbles for his letter in his bag, tying it to her foot when he finds it. 'Can you leave it at my flat? Do you remember where that is?' She bites his finger, an affronted look in her eyes, then flies off. He shakes his head, watching as she takes off into the sky. He stops at Sugarplum's Sweet Shop to take a chocolate soufflé. Maria smiles, handing him the dessert she's already kept for him. He grins at her, pressing two Galleons in her hand. 'Have a lovely day,' he calls out.

He greets Kiernan cheerily, and ignores the surprised look the other man gives him. His wand glows gold, and he skips into the Ministry. He rolls his eyes at the engraving, but winks at Mindroek's stormy eyes. He places the soufflé on Fleur's desk, and hands her his file. She looks at him suspiciously. 'You are oddly jolly.'

He crosses his arms. 'What, I can't be?'

'Oh, no. It just makes me very apprehensive,' she replies, flipping through the sheets of parchment he's meticulously written in his cursive.

'Ooh,' he says, waving his hands. 'Big word. I'm proud.'

She looks taken aback for a beat, then smiles at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that he knows she would hate to find out. It makes her look younger than ever. 'Well, I don't know what's brought about this mood of yours, but it certainly makes you a three-year old child.'

'As opposed to a three-year old adult?' he asks, slightly ashamed.

'It's a good look on you. You weren't really pulling off the whole brooding look.' She hands him the parchments.

'I'll have you know, the brooding brings out the blue in my eyes.'

'You don't have blue in your eyes. They're grey.'

'Grey looks like blue in some lights!'

'I have to admit, you do have a point there.' Fleur sits back, giving him an approving expression. 'Magnifique. I've missed this side of you.'

'Me too,' he admits. 'I feel free.'

'You know how you look?' She doesn't wait for Draco to shake his head. 'You look like Bill when he saw Victoire for the first time. I think that was the moment he finally believed the War wouldn't haunt us again.'

'I don't think that will ever happen.' He thinks of the sound of scales slithering on the Manor's floor, the blood red eyes tearing through Draco's mind. He shakes his head. 'How are they? Bill and Victoire, I mean?'

'Oh, Victoire still cries at night if she's without her pink Pygmy Puff. And Bill insists we call it 'Gleba', like her. I don't know why I put up with this.' She huffs, but Draco detects the underlying fondness in her voice. There are faint traces of a smile on her face, a wistful look of belonging in her eyes. She smiles at Draco secretively. 'And I've agreed to put up with _more_ of it.' She pats her stomach softly, raising her eyebrows. Draco gasps. She laughs. 'Oui! Another baby.'

'Congratulations! Circe, Fleur. That's wonderful. What are you going to name it?' Draco leans over her desk to hug her softly, her lavender smell infiltrating his senses. He pats her back, the soft white robes she wears light on his fingertips.

She smiles brightly, her deep blue eyes glinting. 'Dominique, if it's a girl. And if it's a boy, Louis.'

Draco nods sagely. 'Wonderful names. I wholly approve.'

She slaps him on the arm playfully. 'I didn't need it, but thank you. Now, go do your job. I don't pay you for nothing.'

'Like the goblins would trust you with their money,' he says over his shoulder, slinging his bag onto his back. As soon as he steps out of the wards, he concentrates on the small office on the Atlantic coast he's been frequenting the past few days. He hopes he won't have to wait for his Portkey again. Today, he feels proper excited to examine the wards layering the foundation stones of the Towers. He Apparates.

*

When Draco returns home, Penna is clawing at his coffee table. He rushes to make sure the silver oak isn't too badly damaged, casting a _Reparo_ just in case. She narrows his eyes at the grey owl. 'How did you get in? All my windows are locked.' The owl's only reply is to hoot smugly, if that was even possible. Draco sniffs, taking the letter from its leg. 'You're a little menace. Have you been sitting here all day?' He Summons a packet of owl treats from his kitchen, handing one to her. She gulps it quickly. He unties the parchment.

' _Malfoy,_

_I have to admit, I'm thoroughly impressed. I never expected you to have even a vague memory of last night. I had my first Firewhisky when I was sixteen. It was a toast to Mad-Eye Moody. I feel like I owe you more than that piece of information for recalling our conversation, though. Do you happen to have any dastardly plans you need help with?_

_-Potter.'_

Mad-Eye Moody? Draco tries to place the man in his mind. He knows the man who turned him into a ferret wasn't him, it was some imposter. He doesn't quite know the story behind that, Father had spoken about it in soft tones that didn't carry through the Manor's stone walls. He wonders if Moody's name was another to tack onto the list of people whose deaths Draco has caused. He pushes those thoughts down, instead focusing on Potter's offer. Draco wasn't really planning anything, though he thinks it would be prudent to cash in Scarhead's favour. It couldn't be pure luck that let him defeat the Dark Lord. There was bound to be some talent hidden there. He allows a mischievous grin spread on his face. He picks up his quill, writing in his print:

' _Potter,_

_As a matter of fact, I've got to trash a few of Blaise's comic books. He's usually not in his house in the afternoon. Don't you think it'd be a spectacular coincidence if we happened to meet a few blocks down from my house at half past three where, coincidentally, Blaise lives?_

_\- Malfoy.'_

He ties the parchment to Penna's leg carefully, her yellow eyes scanning the corners of his flat. Draco enters his kitchen, shedding his robe before he starts to work on his dishes. He considers making himself a scrambled egg and calling it a day, but decides to do his laundry as well. He'll have to wear his semi-formal robes tomorrow, and he's rather not soil more than one set a month. He's an expert at setting limits to his laziness. He can feel how unfailingly proud Millie would be. He jolts out of his thoughts as he hears an owl's whistle in his drawing room. He glares. 'How did you get in here, anyway?' he grumbles. He opens the letter.

' _Malfoy,_

_It's a small world, after all._

_\- Potter.'_

He smirks. Blaise better watch out.

*

Potter sneaks up on him this time. Draco had finally cracked the charms on the outermost part of the Tower, and recovered a golden goblet. Not much, in his way of work, but enough to prove that there would undoubtedly be more treasure as more curses were broken. He'd changed into more comfortable clothing at his arrival back home, a pair of well-worn jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. He threw a thin gray jacket over it, stuffing his hands in the pockets as he walks down Blaise's street. He feels a tap on his shoulder, and as a subsequent result, his mouth dries up.

Potter smiles impishly, hair windblown and messier than usual. He dons a Puddlemere jersey, a small logo on the left side, and- _Salazar_ , was that Potter's nipple? Draco checked the other one to make sure, and well enough, he concluded that Potter's clothes were tighter than a virgin and his nipples harder than stone. He wore dark black jeans that outlined the curve of his muscular legs, and Draco's thoughts swooned.

'Sorry,' Potter begins, titling his head apologetically. 'I have a match coming up this Friday, and the team's been training like there's no tomorrow. Thank Merlin for Cleaning Charms, huh?'

Draco wrinkles his nose. 'Have a shower when you go home. It's unhygienic.'

Potter shrugs. 'I'll probably go back to the pitch in a while. It's very likely to rain, so might as well shower then.'

Draco swallows down the images of a rain-soaked Potter in his Quidditch robes. 'Well, it's your problem, not mine. Don't tell me when people say you smell.' Potter goes to protest, but Draco stops in front of a nondescript building, pointing to a window where a creeper flourishes too well in London climate to not be the product of magic. 'That's Blaise's flat.'

Potter cocks his head to the left. 'It's so.. plain.' He glances at Draco. 'I don't mean to be stereotypical, but I expected all of you to live more richly. It can't have been easy, going from a mansion to a small one bedroom flat.'

Draco pulls the doors to Blaise's building open, making his way to the stairs. 'It wasn't, but, we've adapted. It's what we're good at.' He walks to Blaise's door, turning the knob that he knows Blaise leaves unlocked. The door remains stubbornly shut. 'Bollocks!'

'What's wrong?' Potter asks from behind him. His breath is warm on Draco's skin.

Draco curses again. 'Blaise's wards. They usually let me in, but he must have shut them off to me. Or he probably has that codswallop spell that doesn't let people with harmful intent in.'

Potter looks vaguely confused. 'You just plan to hide his comic books, right? How does that even constitute harm?'

Draco rolls his eyes petulantly. 'Blaise likes his comic books more than most human beings. Even touching some of them is like a knife to his heart, the fucking sod.'

Potter smiles beautifully. 'It's good you brought me along, then. Ron taught me how to break past a few of those wards.' He whips out his wand, muttering words that Draco is too distracted to listen to. Potter's eyes close as he mentally probes for the walls of the wards, his eyebrows pulled together. His lips press against each other. It takes a few more moments before he opens his eyes again, a maniac smile that Draco should not find as appealing as he does. 'Try again,' he instructs.

Draco twists the doorknob, and it swings open smoothly. 'Not bad, Potter. I might keep you around. You've proven useful.'

Potter looks at Blaise's flat curiously, as if faced with a crime scene. 'Gee, thanks, Malfoy. All I needed in life was your approval,' he mumbles sarcastically.

Draco bends under the cabinet near the telly, hoping the carton of Muggle comics was still there. 'Aha!' he exclaims triumphantly. Potter's head pokes around the hallway leading to the kitchen and bedroom. 'I've found it.'

He opens the box carefully, because years of listening to Blaise's rants about mint-conditions and first-editions have somehow had an effect. Potter kneels next to him on the carpet. The first issue proudly states 'Cable and Deadpool #15'. Next to him, Potter lets out what sounds suspiciously like a squeal. He looks to Draco, pointing to a cover that says in bright blue 'Captain America'. It features a man with very defined muscles and, in Draco's opinion, a completely useless mask. He seems to be throwing a Frisbee with a star on it. He doesn't understand what appeal Blaise finds in these.

Potter looks at him pleadingly. 'Can I have the Captain America ones? Please?'

Draco cannot say to those eyes. He rolls his eyes for form's sake. 'We  _are_ stealing them.' He gestures to the box. 'Feel free.' Potter grins, gingerly picking up the one he had his eye on, looking at it in marvel. He flips it open eagerly, joy never leaving his features. Draco wonders if he looks like that on Christmas Day. He sighs, Levitating a pile of the books to the ground. He flicks his wand again, and it shrinks into a cube. 'Are you quite done, Potter?'

Potter looks up, a child-like glint in his eyes. 'Never,' he says, but he picks up a few more comics almost reverently, tucking them into the crook of his elbow. 'Do you mind hiding them in my flat? I'd really like to go through these.'

'That's actually a good idea. Blaise is never going to imagine I'm hiding his things at Harry bloody Potter's place.' Draco chuckles at the mental images that form in his head at that. He places the box back under the cabinet, walking out and turning to lock the door.

Potter smiles wider, and Draco isn't quite sure how that was even possible. He hugs the books to his chest. 'Wonderful.' His expression turns a tad thoughtful. 'How shall I return them, though? I probably won't be free until after the match.'

'The grave on Saturday, then?' At Potter's nod, he smiles hesitantly. 'Good luck with your match. You bloody well win. I've put thirty Galleons on you.' He hasn't, but now he's going to. He doesn't know who the match is against, but he's willing to bet on Potter anyway.

'Well, now. Can't disappoint Draco Malfoy, can I?' He winks, then Disapparates. Draco lets out a quiet sigh, then turns on his heel, too.

*

The match is against the Wimbourne Wasps. Draco returns from Canada early on Friday, despite the fact that if he had spent another hour on the spells, he would have finally gotten a glimpse at the gold that was buried there. He Floos to Pansy's flat, a bottle of wine in his hands. When Daphne, Millie and Blaise arrive, they eat dinner and put on the WWN to listen to Theo's voice giving them a play-by-play of the match. Draco doesn't whoop when he hears the words 'Harry Potter seems to have spotted the Snitch', but he shifts closer to the radio. He doesn't leap when Harry catches the Snitch, but his heart does.

*

Potter has stars in his eyes the next time they meet. He holds Blaise's comic book to his chest in a way reminiscent of a teenage girl. Draco is tempted to make a joke about it, but he doesn't want to risk the look in his eyes fading. Instead, he surprises himself by asking, 'How about a cuppa, then?'

They Apparate to Draco's flat, and Potter looks unbearably curious, just as he had at Blaise's. He looks at everything with wide eyes, books still in his arms, and Draco finds it comical enough to let out a soft snort at the sight and adorable enough to do nothing else. He puts a lump of sugar and a dash of milk in Potter's cup, handing it to him as he sits on the couch gingerly. He nearly spills it as he points to a pack of cards. 'I never thought you'd be the Exploding Snap type, Malfoy.'

Draco groans. 'I'm forced to keep a pack here. Turns out, if you get Slytherins drunk enough, they revert to being third-years with an insatiable curiosity for genitals.'

Potter laughs, and places the comics on the couch next to him. 'The same games that result in orgies?'

Draco sips his tea, and rolls his eyes at Potter. 'Give me some credit, I have class. It's simply below me.'

Potter, the prat, raises an eyebrow. 'So, what, you're telling me Draco Whatever-Your-Middle-Name-Is Malfoy, has never partaken in an orgy?'

'Abraxas.' Draco waves his wand, and the cards replace themselves on the shelves. 'I believe some gratitude is in order, however. I was on the receiving end of a wholly amusing firecall from a distressed Blaise screaming he couldn't find an entire run of Captain America comics, and a few mint editions.' Draco pauses. 'Whatever that means.'

Potter laughs at him, eyes lit up, crinkling at the corners. 'Do wizards not have comic books?'

Draco frowns. 'No. I do recall a letter from a distant cousin in America, who has a daughter, of pictures in books that spoke to tell a story. Do those classify as comics?'

'They're only comics if guys in their twenties read them on stained couches, proclaiming Batman could take the Hulk any day,' Potter says, with the tone of someone making an obscure reference. It's lost on Draco, who fails to understand what language Potter is speaking. Potter laughs at Draco's confusion, and somehow, Draco doesn't even mind. 'Nevermind. I'm sure Blaise must have tried several times to explain, and if that hasn't stuck, I don't know what will.'

Blaise, in fact, had. 'Salazar, that boy never stopped talking about them. All the time. The Great Hall, Potions class, common room, even after we fucked!'

Potter cocks his head sideways. 'You fucked a lot, then?'

Draco looks away, 'I suppose. Well, for a little more than two years.'

'What happened?'

He looks up at Potter. 'I was bound to kill a man.'

He expects it to dampen the mood, for Potter's eyes to become stormy with anger, or disappointment, but he just furrows his eyebrows. 'I think it's possible that you could have learned to love each other again.'

Of course, Potter hits the nail on the head again, Draco doesn't even know why he's surprised anymore. 'Love? Blaise and I weren't-'

Potter has the audacity to roll his eyes. 'I may have been a brightly painted target my whole school life, it doesn't mean I was blind.' He frowns. 'Or deaf. I think Seamus started a betting pool for when you and Blaise would snog at breakfast.'

'Well, there was this one time in a broom cupboard just outside the hall...' Draco muses. Potter chokes a little. _Finally_. Draco was beginning to think he'd never see Potter embarrassed, the way he talks about everything so freely. He smirks. 'What, Potter? Never snogged in semi-public before?'

'Didn't exactly have the time back in Hogwarts.'

Draco is enjoying this thoroughly. 'Not even in the Quidditch locker rooms, then?'

'Well, there was this one time in the showers...' Potter puts on the same drawl as Draco had, still slightly red, but composing himself. It's Draco who's flushing now, heat curling low in his belly, thoughts of Potter's heated skin against cool, tiled walls, head thrown back, rivulets of water running down his torso, a nameless, muscular body colouring his neck purple.

He leans forward. 'Really? Go on.'

'Aren't you interested?' Potter says, all semblance of embarrassment gone.

'Fit, attractive Quidditch players fuck in the showers? I need to know everything.'

'Are you admitting I'm fit, Malfoy?' Draco opens his mouth, but he doesn't know what to say. _Like you didn't know, Potter?_ or, _Don't be cocky, Potter?_ Thankfuly, Potter saves him the trouble. 'Though you'd be surprised at how often it happens. Not all of them are gay, of course, but... I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but the adrenaline after a match, sometimes even practices? It leaves... this desire that builds up every few months or so. Oliver once explained how the closeness affects our collective magic, but I wasn't paying attention.' Draco rolls his eyes. 'And, I mean, we all feel it, so,' Potter waves his hand, 'Might as well.'

Draco is skeptical. 'How is it pleasurable if they're not even attracted to men? If it is, I think it's rather obvious that they aren't completely straight.'

'Well, everyone is a little gay, you know? And all gay people are a little straight. Everyone is attracted to something, and just because the characteristic is more common in one gender, it doesn't mean it's impossible not be attracted to the same thing in another gender. Or they may prefer it in that gender, whatever, but you still can't completely ignore it, you know?' Potter's eyes get a little fiercer as he talks, and Draco can't help but nod. 'Besides, I think it's just how they release the tension.'

'I'm certain several players on the Kenmare Kestrels and Puddlemere have significant others.'

'Yeah, they do. Usually they go home to their partners, but when they're out of town, or simply want to stay with us, they're relatively complacent. It's a Quidditch thing, I guess.' Potter lets out a little laugh. 'Though, there was this one time, where I was still with the Kestrels, Aidan Kaely's girlfriend stormed the fields during practice and demanded he come down.' Potter laughs, a distant look in his eyes. 'Merlin, she was purple. She didn't like that he'd stayed with the team the previous day. They broke up.'

Draco gapes. 'He didn't even make up an excuse?'

Potter tilts his head back in thought. 'No? I mean, on the team... If partners don't understand the dynamic, then honestly, it's quite obvious they probably aren't compatible.'

Draco pauses, and thinks of whether he would be able to cope with that. The knowledge that Potter had fucked a teammate, had been thrumming with so much energy that he'd stripped another man, so desperate for release... He takes a deep breath. 'I'm surprised the Prophet hasn't gotten wind of it, yet.'

Potter snorts. 'I'd have three new people in my bed every two days, if even a letter the Prophet printed was true. It's why I don't date. The amount of publicity would drive anyone up the wall.'

'And you've never even dated?' Draco doesn't feel as horrified as he should. There had been Jonas, an exchange student from up North, studying in some Muggle university, and Derek, who had been brilliant in the sack; perhaps another handful of people that Draco had dated over the last four years. It wasn't a very big hole in the fabric of his life.

Potter shrugs. 'No, of course I did, I just never wanted to expose them to the media like that, and keeping it a secret takes its toll on a relationship, you know?'

He's just about to agree when the fireplace sparks and Millie's voice echoes in the room. 'Draco? Are you here?' He jerks, pulling Potter away from sight of the fireplace. 'Draco?' He spells away the extra cup onto the kitchen counter, smoothing his shirt down. He doesn't look to see Potter's reaction. 'Circe, where are you-'

'Millie,' he calls, crouching in front of the Floo. Her face immediately appears in the flames, oddly anxious. 'Draco! Where _are_ you? We were worried, Merlin, Theo's nearly convinced you've finally offed yourself-'

He clears his throat, hugely aware of Potter's presence to his right. 'I seem to have missed something. Why exactly are you so tense?'

Millie gapes for a second, before regaining composure. 'Draco... We were supposed to meet at Pansy's flat, today. Two hours ago.'

'I don't- ' Draco's eyes widen. 'Oh, Salazar. We were scheduled for lunch, weren't we? We had to watch Pansy's new shoot, and lay bets for the match next week. Merlin, Millie, I swear it just slipped my mind.' He takes another look at her face, and feels guilty from the amount of anxiety he sees there. All his friends were convinced he was unstable after- after Mother, and something like this... He can imagine Pansy's flimsy, flippant behaviour betrayed by a bitten lip, Blaise pacing the floor or shaking his left foot, Theo's near panic, Millie's rational mind overworking for some explanation. The fact that even Millie was so worried caught him off-guard. Had he really been so out of sorts these past few days?

'It's okay, Draco. It's just so unlike you. You're _never_ late, you never forget these things. Are you feeling okay, love? It's okay to-' He clears his throat again, eyes darting to the floor for a moment.

'I'll be over as soon as possible. Give my apologizes to everyone, please.' Millie's eyes, somehow looking soft even through the flames, looks at him a beat more before she nods, and disappears. He steels himself, and turns towards Potter. He expects pity, but all he sees is green eyes filled with curiousity.

'So.. you bet on Quidditch matches, huh? Who'd you bet on last week?' He smiles a little.

Draco blushes, of all things. 'I'll have you know that you aren't the only reason Puddlemere is one of the more competent teams in the League.'

'But you admit I'm a reason,' Potter teases. Draco can't hold his smile in anymore. Potter's eyes go warm and he continues,'I suppose you have to leave. It's getting late, I have to meet Seamus and Luna at Diagon Alley as well.'

'I trust you can find the door?' Potter nods. 'Well, enjoy doing undoubtedly reckless things with your ragtag group of Gryffindors.' He begins to spell the remaining cup away, turning away from Potter.

'Luna's a Ravenclaw. Goodbye, Malfoy.' There's an undeniable softness in his voice. Draco hears the door close and stills, letting his shoulders fall. He takes yet another deep breath (it seems he needs several while around Potter), and scoops Blaise's comics in one arm. He throws some Floo powder into the fireplace, enunciating, 'Millicent Bulstrode!'

When he steps onto Millie's purple rug, he's met with four piercing stares. He raises an arm, winking at Blaise. 'You'll have to blame this on Blaise. I was busy procuring his precious first edition comics, just to stop the whinging.'

He can feel some tension leave them. He takes a pillow to the face, Blaise screaming, 'They're mint edition, you bastard!'

*

 

 

 

                                                            

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from:['House Of Gold' by Twenty-One Pilots.](//www.youtube.com/watch?v=mDyxykpYeu8)  
> Constructive Criticism appreciated? This is my first fic. It'd be easier for future reference.  
> Send me things on Tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hollythewizardtributefromcabin3).  
> Thank you, especially those who've left comments and kudos.  
> Next chapter whenever I get time.  
> I know I'm like, ten months late posting this. But I've had a horrible 2016, and I'm hoping this fic isn't dead.


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